


The Phoney War

by bob_fish



Series: Wrong Turn 'verse [34]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alchemy, Comedy, F/M, M/M, Mystery, Nakama, Politics, Resolved Sexual Tension, Revolution, Smut, Teamwork, Unresolved Sexual Tension, skulduggery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 79,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bob_fish/pseuds/bob_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Direct sequel to No Small Injury.</p><p>Two years on from the Promised Day. Amestris is without a Fuhrer. In the military, Mustang's faction of reformers are locked in struggle with General Hakuro's old guard. Ed and Al have discovered that Hakuro's faction are developing an alchemical weapon that makes the Immortal Army look harmless. Civil war seems inevitable. As the battle lines are drawn up, Team Mustang search urgently for Hakuro's secret weapon and meanwhile, struggle to get from day to day knowing that tomorrow could be the day that everything comes crashing down …</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed and edited by enemytosleep and a_big_apple. Thanks for additional know-how and advice to havocmangawip.
> 
> Illustrated fic is illustrated.
> 
> This 'verse is a slight AU from 108 (I got jossed). For clarity, details [here](http://bob-fish.livejournal.com/36157.html).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed doesn't like Mondays, Brosch doesn't like hospitals, and Rebecca doesn't like shop talk at dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [](http://cornerofmadness.livejournal.com/profile)[**cornerofmadness**](http://cornerofmadness.livejournal.com/) for surgical and wound care know-how. Shout-out to [](http://havocmangawip.livejournal.com/profile)[**havocmangawip**](http://havocmangawip.livejournal.com/) for one line which echoes a classic line from her [Jean Havoc: a Work in Progress](http://www.fanfiction.net/~havocmangawip).  
> 

_All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible._  
         - T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

"Can't say that I see it, Henry." His guest squinted and turned to one side, as if looking from a different angle would make something appear in the empty air inside the jar.

"No?" Katzenklavier poured two good measures of gin into the tumblers of ice, and topped them up with tonic water from a syphon bottle. "It's a little shy."

He brought over the two glasses, and winked. "Do you see the little cloud inside the glass?"

"Ah. It's rather faint."

"As I said. Just shy." He touched his fingertips to the glass softly, and left them there. After a few moments the little cloud began to darken. They both watched for a full minute as it bloomed into visibility. Then a soft, translucent tendril unfurled from the cloud. Cautiously, it stretched itself out towards Katzenklavier's hand. The tip of it patted silently against the glass under his fingertip once; then again and again.

The sensation reminded him very much of holding his infant daughter in his arms for the first time: a fresh, sleepy little bundle of raw life, slowly awakening to itself, full of the future. And what could be better in the world than that?

  


***

They were out of hot water again. Ed tried to duck out of the freezing spray as he fiddled with the bath taps, and yeah, there definitely wasn't any left. Dammit.

"Al!" Ed shouted from the bathroom. There was no response, so he turned off the taps and tried again. "Hey, Al! You used up all the hot water again! I'm freezing my balls off!"

A muffled yell from the living room, through the thin walls. "So? Transmute it hot. It's just a change of state." A change which Ed had never been able to make precisely enough not to risk scalding himself. Al knew this well enough, the little shit. Ed growled to himself, and then sucked it up. "Al, heat up the hot water tank, could you?" Exactly what his little brother wanted him to say. Al had developed an aggravating habit of taking long, long showers soon after he got his body back - but this time, Ed was suspicious that he'd partly used the water up just to make Ed ask.

"Sure, Brother." A brief pause. "All done!" Even through the wall, Ed could hear the smugness in his tone. Definitely deliberate. Ed turned the hot tap back on, and was half-glad, half-irritated to find the water heat up deliciously after a moment. Remote transmutations, Xingese-style: the specialty that had won Al his shiny new silver watch. Months of trying, and Ed still couldn't do them to save his life - and didn't Al just love that?

"Hey! Stop shouting through the walls, you guys! What are you, twelve? I'm _asleep_!" Winry's train back to Rush Valley wasn't until later that morning, so of course she would be making the most of the rare opportunity to lie in on a Monday. Neither Ed nor Al replied to her. Morning was not her best time, and it was never a good idea to mess with a cranky, unexpectedly woken Winry. The wisest thing to do was to leave her and trust in her powers to almost immediately fall back asleep. Ed took a cautious glance into the living room on his way back from the shower. The pile of blankets on the sofa was breathing peacefully once more, a small pile of blonde hair poking out from it. Sweet, in a scary kind of way. Ed chuckled affectionately - but quietly - and moved on.

Back in his bedroom, Ed towelled his hair off, half-dried it with a clap and then shoved it into a ponytail. He pulled a pair of boxers from what he was fairly sure was the clean laundry pile, sniffed them to double-check, then pulled them on. Socks, black shirt, pants, boots. Then - dammit - he hooked on his cavalry skirt. Three months and this thing still didn't make any sense. Next was the jacket with a million annoying internal fastenings, the buttons, the aiguillette cords on the shoulder he had to check weren't tangled, and finally his silver watch on a lanyard in the front pocket.

Not long ago, in happier times, Ed had thought of aiguillettes and lanyards vaguely as 'those string things'. Nearly seven years in the military and he'd never had to put on a uniform, but then he'd just had to go and re-enlist. And then, a week later, he'd lost an argument with Riza Hawkeye on the subject of office dress code. There had been others since, the most notable being: if Ed could get away with not wearing the jacket ever, if the butt cape was compulsory, if the butt cape should in fact be referred to as a cavalry skirt, if Ed would be wearing a sidearm, and if he then had to be taught to use that sidearm. Ed had lost every single one, which was why he was now clipping a loaded revolver in a leather case to his belt, and why he was also reporting to the firing range at 1700 hours for target practice with Captain Catalina. Why the hell did he have to be taught to shoot by Havoc's crazy girlfriend instead of Havoc? Nuts to him for drinking beer with gangsters and calling it work.

Shit, 0800. Time to go to work. And oh yeah, he was calling it that now, instead of saying eight o'clock like a normal person.

Monday mornings sucked.

***

Roy had been on good form at this morning's meeting, or so he was guessing from the taut defensiveness that had crept into Hakuro's usual attitude of barely-veiled hostility. He'd kept smiling and had handled it smoothly, made small talk about the roadworks on Jordan Boulevard to show he was a bit more human and all of that. Major General Savoyard had agreed warmly with his stance on railway budgets for the East; she was clearly warming to his faction these last few weeks.

As he walked the corridors of Headquarters with Riza by his side, Roy tested himself: what if it happened tomorrow? What if tomorrow was the day Hakuro broke their pact and started his war, the day the creature his alchemist was building emerged from its cocoon to do - whatever the hell it was capable of? Roy had the people's support, he was confident of that. Against Hakuro, he had Parliament's support too. Roy's alliance with the pro-democracy party currently dominating the House was shaky and not quite trustworthy; but at least they knew that Hakuro was no democrat. And the military? Briggs backed him. General Armstrong's legacy extended that far. He was controversial in the East, but Hakuro was actively unpopular. The South was Hakuro's heartland, the West was neutral for now, and the brass and officers of Central were increasingly falling into one faction or the other.

Rumours of a civil war were everywhere: these days, the fence was a hazardous place to sit.

He wanted to talk to Grumman about chess; he wanted to talk to Hughes about poker. He was lucky to still have Riza, but luck was a fragile, untrustworthy thing. He glanced at her. After a moment, she made eye contact and gave him a cautious smile. She looked like she'd spotted something in the meeting that he had missed.

He'd talk to her later. She'd give it to him straight.

***

Al spent most of his time out of uniform and deep in research, digging around in archives and libraries. His official research was the cover for his real research, which worked out very nicely for Al. The cover for Ed's real research, on the other hand, was being administrative assistant to the State Alchemist programme. He organised meetings, he took minutes, he monitored what people were up to and reported back about who was trustworthy and who was sketchy. It was the sort of thing that Al would have been really, really good at. Ed hated it, and had to consciously work at not fucking it up. He lived for his research days and the occasional missions, following leads out to the middle of nowhere in the hope of tracking down Katzenklavier. How had the man managed to vanish into smoke like that?

Right now, Ed was supposed to be typing an agenda for a meeting so dull that its purpose vanished from his brain after about five seconds every time he looked up from his scribbled notes about it. After he typed this, Ed would have to go copy it, which meant wrestling his arch-enemy, the department's malfunctioning mimeograph machine. So he was practicing one of his newer bad habits: he was procrastinating.

He flipped through his notebook, making as loud a rustling sound as possible to show how hard he was working. Meanwhile, he snuck glances around the room to see who else could be up for a little surreptitious slacking off. Hawkeye ran her own office next door these days. Sadly, Miles worked in Mustang's office. Happily, Miles was out at a meeting.

Ed continued looking. Havoc: on the phone. Havoc's secretary, Addison: nowhere to be seen. Breda: head down, apparently working. Catalina: out on the firing range training the men. Ed carried on looking and his eyes flicked past Mustang. He was practicing twirling a pencil in one hand, flipping it neatly between each finger. Ed ducked his head and watched. A fat dossier lay unopened on Mustang's desk. He had one elbow propped up on it, hand on his chin, as he concentrated on his pencil-twirling. He spun the pencil around his thumb - and it dropped to the table. He covered it with his hand quickly before it could clatter too much, picked it up again and resumed the spin. _Slacker_ , thought Ed. How did the man manage to work his butt off and yet still be such a slacker? Wait up here, a little inner voice here, Ed was slacking himself, kind of. No, he was taking a break. Mustang's slacking was different, it was blatant and barely ashamed. Ed guessed that was one of the perks of being the boss -

The pencil stopped, suddenly gripped in a light fist in a flashy little move. Mustang was looking straight at him. "Fullmetal, what's up at the canteen today?"

"And what if I didn't check it out today?" Mustang just fixed him with the stare. Ed scowled, and stared right back. It was comforting to know that with all the nuttiness happening these days, some things didn't change. Ed finally sighed theatrically and closed his eyes, ending the staring match with some dignity by pretending he was too bored to keep it up. "Meatloaf. And those roast potatoes that are soft on the outside and crunchy on the inside. And mystery sauce."

Mustang blew his breath up into his bangs. "Too much to bear on a Monday. Sandwiches it is, then. Godfrey's?"

Ed shrugged a yes.

Some things didn't change. But others ...

***

***

Ed unbuttoned his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and let the warm July sun onto his arm and the back of his neck. You weren't supposed to do that, half-wear your uniform when you were outside HQ, but Mustang wasn't going to tell on him.

They were talking about stupid shit while they waited for their food. Ed really wanted to ask him about controlling the temperature more finely when heating water - Mustang knew his elemental alchemy and his precision rocked - but he was weird about talking alchemy stuff in public, even the safe stuff.

He decided to try skirting the issue to see where it got him.

"You know," Ed said, "my teacher's always talking about alchemy in public. She's cool with it, she talks to random kids, people she meets on trains."

Mustang laughed. "I can see Mrs Curtis doing that. My teacher was - not like that." He'd been some kind of reclusive nutcase from what Ed had picked up. "By the way, you should probably tidy your apartment."

"Really?" asked Ed. Mustang was hinting. What he meant was, Teacher was coming up for a meeting. Afterwards, Ed expected that she'd collar him and Al unannounced. She'd fillet their research, chew Al out for joining up and Ed for staying on, then take them out for dinner and lecture them about the importance of eating enough protein. It was great to see her so well, it really was.

Mustang's hand rested loosely around his glass of soda. The guy had big hands for someone his height. Ed had no idea why he was staring at it. So he stopped. He tossed a peanut into his mouth. Mustang raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"They were already on the table."

"So?"

"You know 95% of all bar nuts have particles of shit on them? From customers who haven't washed their hands after they hit the bathroom."

"You made that up."

"I didn't actually, I read it in the Herald or somewhere. Someone did a study."

Ed tutted. "Smells like urban legend to me." He picked up a peanut. "How about I clap up an on-the-spot analysis?"

Mustang snorted. "It's on your head, you've only eaten about twenty."

Ed threw a peanut at him. Mustang brought his hand up and caught it right in front of his eyes.

Two plates of sandwiches and two glasses of water appeared between them. As the waitress put them down on the table, she smiled at them tolerantly. Mustang shifted and sat up in his seat, turning on an apologetic, charming smile that briefly made him look about sixteen. Ed put his hands in his lap and ducked his head.

Ed wasn't sure what the two of them were, these days. He had a sneaking suspicion they might be something close to friends.

"I'm gonna hit the books tomorrow, it's my early day." Not in the public library, but in Mustang's library, in his own flat, although Ed wasn't saying that in public. The enemy were about.

"Good idea," said Mustang, gesticulating with his sandwich. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow now. "I'm finishing at 1800, call me before then if you find something." Translation: put on a pot of coffee, and I'll be there on the dot of six to discuss your findings. It had seemed decent of him at the time to show Ed how to use his beloved vacuum coffeepot, but really he had done it so Ed would make coffee while he was working at Mustang's. Lazy, manipulative bastard. Like that was anything new.

***

Ed leant against the wall at the back of the office, phone receiver to his ear. Winry's voice crackled down the line. "Hey! I can't talk for long because my afternoon clinic starts in five, just calling in to let you know I was home safe."

"Thanks. Did you have an okay journey?"

"All right. I got a screaming baby opposite me, but he fell asleep in the end. Thanks for this weekend - tell Al too. I had really a good time with you guys."

"It's cool. I feel kind of bad you did so much work stuff."

"Don't be dumb! I needed to do a check-up on the new arm and brace. And of course I didn't mind going to see Warrant Officer Brosch. How he was - that's totally classic, by the way." Ed could hear that it was still bugging her. "Half the clients I see pre-amputation are like that. It's always _just in case_. I bet the surgeon said everything I did. A lot of patients get selective hearing about the stuff they can't handle yet."

Ed thought back to yesterday.

" _We think you should consider elective amputation and automail surgery_ , they said. Like it was getting my teeth capped!" Brosch had shaken his head. The bad leg was mostly covered up. The top edges of an unpleasant-looking metal frame stuck out from under the bedclothes. When Brosch moved, he shifted around the leg, as if it was painful or immovable.

"Well. What they probably meant was there are different paths you could take now, and you should start considering the risks and benefits." Winry was using her diplomacy voice, the one she used to talk to upset patients, and to Ed when she wanted to show him she was controlling her temper. "Successful automail surgery and physical therapy could mean that in time, you could do most of the things you did before."

"I get it," said Brosch, "and thanks for coming over, but this doesn't apply to me right now. There's still a very good chance that I'll recover completely -"

"Ah," said Winry. "So what are the doctors saying right now?" Ed admired how she was keeping her cool, but he could read the undertone in her voice. He glanced towards the window. Nice day out. Sucked for Brosch that he was spending it in a hospital bed. It was weird and horrible to think about what one bullet could do. Ed thought briefly of his sidearm, back at home in a strongbox alchemised shut, waiting for Monday morning. On that gang raid two months ago, Brosch had taken one shot from a gun like that, and now here he was.

"That there's nearly a fifty percent chance I'll be able to walk on the leg," said Brosch. "Which is really good odds, actually. So I'll wait for now. Thanks."

"I think it might be a bit more complicated than that. Dr Phillips told me a bit about it. You've got quite a high risk of infection, which could be dangerous, and - "

"But still, there's a good chance I'll walk on it." Brosch was furrowing his brow now.

There was a substantial silence.

"So," said Brosch to Ed with a bright, nervous grin, "I hear automail surgery really hurts, huh?"

Ed scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah. Look - the surgery really sucks, and the PT's hard, but really - I can only speak for me, but for me, it was totally worth it. Like, a thousand times. And Winry does amazing work, they're just really nice pieces of design. Look." He toed off his boot and pulled up his pants leg past the knee. He got it up just far enough to expose the automail brace and the scarring where his thigh stump locked into it.

He didn't get the reaction he'd thought. Brosch was looking at Ed's leg in open fear, like it was something poisonous that was going to bite him or something. Ed felt suddenly, horribly self-conscious. He shoved his pants leg back down and pushed his foot back into the boot.

Winry put a friendly hand on Brosch's shoulder. "We'll leave you to think about it. This is completely your choice - only if you do decide to get automail, get straight in touch with us, right? I'm not denigrating the Bradley Centre's work" - Ed repressed the urge to roll his eyes - "but you're always going to do better with bespoke work than with standard military models, and Atelier Garfiel is one of the most trusted names in the business. Take care of yourself!"

Brosch had seemed somewhat sceptical.

"So," Ed said into the phone, "now you just have to wait for it to sink in, and then he calls you again when he's ready?"

"Well" - Winry's sigh crackled down the line. "It's a bit more -"

"Complicated than that?" Ed supplied.

Winry tutted. "It is! That is - sorry to say it - one screwed-up leg. The surgeon's good, and he says there's a hell of a lot of nerve damage. He's not going to run on that leg, he's probably not even going to walk on it again without a crutch. And he's running a lot of risks hanging onto it now. He's already had osteomyelitis - the bone infection, remember? He could get a blood clot or a bone marrow embolus - both of those could kill him, by the way. Or if he got another major infection, that could spread up, get his organs, that'd kill him too. I don't know what's wrong with people sometimes. If that was me, I'd say chop the leg off tomorrow."

Ed snorted. "Of course you would. You'd probably chop it off yourself, design a new one with thirty different gadgets, talk about it forever …"

"Because I haven't been listening to you and Al yammer on about alchemy all weekend and, I dunno - your entire lives?"

Ed chuckled and shrugged. "At least we're all geeks together?"

Winry said, "Don't worry. I'll make sure Warrant Officer Brosch gets the good stuff."

Ed shuffled his feet. His stomach was clenching itself up. He cupped the handset and lowered his voice. "Look, are you sure he wouldn't be okay with just the regular military automail? This is really nice of you and all, but -"

"Jeez, again! Look, I still remember when he and Captain Ross looked after you guys. They saved your life, I don't want him walking around with a crappy second-rate leg."

"It won't be, you have crazy standards. Listen up a second. You know how things are with the country right now. With me as a private patient, you'd probably be safe if - you know, things take a bad turn - but if you start treating other people from our faction, Hakuro's guys are going to see you as basically an arms dealer. Things are so bad I can freaking say that on a military line! Everyone knows! Please, Win, you don't _need_ to paint a target on your forehead, so why -"

"Come on, Ed. Don't do this. If you carry on, we're going to have an argument. We've had this really nice weekend - I mean - the three of us -" There was a pause on her end of the line. Her voice had gone a little high and tense. Then it came back, softer. "I had a great time with you guys at the Vortex gig."

Ed took a few deep breaths and scuffed a foot on the floor. "Okay. They're awesome, aren't they? Let me know if you can't find their record in RV, I can pick it up for you here."

"Thanks," said Winry quietly. "Look, I gotta go now, my clinic's starting."

"'Kay. Take care, Win. I had a good weekend too."

He'd get Al to talk to her about this instead. Al was sneaky, he could persuade her. And she was right, it really had been a good weekend. In a funny way, Ed was grateful for all the Brosch stuff, for how it gave them a nice piece of neutral ground to meet on, a topic of conversation that didn't lead them awkwardly right back to the way things had been between the two of them. He'd never dare put it like this to Winry, but in his head he thought of it as a transmutation. All the stuff they'd been through together, all that passion and craziness and hard work and love, Ed couldn't bear to think that it had just been lost when they broke up. No, it was raw material for something else, that was all. It was a mess right now, but if they drew out a new formula, and poured their wills into it, and took the time to work it out - they could really call themselves friends again. And a friendship with Winry Rockbell was a thing worth working for.

***

"You _cooked_ ," said Rebecca happily, for about the fourth time that evening. It was more of an event than it sounded. The Catalina-Havoc household did not cook, unless you counted cheese on toast or warming up yesterday's takeout. However, it seemed roasting a chicken was way easier than Havoc had thought. All right, there'd been the first few minutes of panic when he'd gotten it home and wondered what the hell he'd been thinking, and predicted it would still be sitting on the counter mocking him when Becky got in. Then he'd phoned his mother. Turned out you just rubbed a bit of butter on the skin, put a lemon up its ass, and stuck it in a roasting tin in the oven until it was done. And it was cooked, and they had salad, and crunchy bread. Why hadn't he been roasting chickens his whole life?

"Well, you know, we don't get to have dinner together every night. Oh, hey, I was going to say." Havoc gestured with a half-eaten chicken leg. "I think I might be able to get something out of Scholl after all."

"No shop talk," said Rebecca, raising a finger. She pulled a bit of chicken off her wing with her fingertips and dipped it in mustard. By this point of the meal they had both abandoned decorum.

Jean gave her a resigned sigh and a cheeky grin.

"Okay," said Rebecca, "I'll bite. But we really need not to do this the whole time. I've got a nice meal and a beer and my man here, it's time for a break from work."

"A couple more meetings and I reckon I can get him on side. Then we can hit the train freight angle."

"Nice," said Rebecca. When certain rare alchemic materials were delivered by freight or by post, they got marked with a hazard label. This meant that they stood out and people who'd handled them would remember - and that with a few sharp eyes in the right places, they could keep tabs on the addresses to which these goods were being delivered. They had the road angle covered: trains were proving to be the missing link, and this Scholl guy ran the country's biggest railway freight company.

"How about that chicken, huh?" Havoc fished.

Rebecca grinned goofily and bobbed up and down in her chair. "You cooked for me."

"I can show you how," said Havoc. "It's a pretty simple operation."

"Really?" said Rebecca. "Because you remember what happens when I enter the kitchen. Like when we were first dating and I tried to make Steak Diane and we just had to throw it away -"

The telephone rang. Rebecca had jogged out into the hall before Havoc had even put his fork down and pushed back from the table. He took a swig of his beer and listened.

"Hey, Maria! Can I call you back, we were just eating … " Rebecca went quiet. For a long few moments, there was just silence, interspersed with small, worryingly serious conversational noises from Becky. "Okay … when? Okay. Right. Well, take care. We'll catch up tomorrow morning."

The phone clicked back into its holder and Rebecca walked back in. "Brosch got wet gangrene. It moves really fast, apparently. He's in surgery right now. They're taking the leg off."

Havoc pulled out from the table, and without another word Becky hopped right into his lap and curled up, arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, and they just sat like that for a moment.

"Not your fault, right," muttered Havoc into Rebecca's hair. Brosch had been injured on her mission, under her command.

He felt her nod. Brosch was going to wake up the next day with a head full of painkillers, and then he was going to work out what was up, and then he was going to think, _okay, fuck, what now?_ Havoc squeezed his eyes shut. There was always more, wasn't there? And then - he thought about what was lurking in the future for them all, in the days and months ahead. War. More of this bullshit, more people he liked getting hurt. Becky was stroking her fingers through the back of his hair. He had his beautiful girl in his arms, and he wanted someone to give him a written, stamped guarantee that she was still going to be alive and okay this time tomorrow.

 _Onwards and upwards_ , the Chief was always saying. He trusted the man.

They better fucking get there.


	2. Blue Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy takes stock, Winry and Garfiel take a stand, and Hayate takes advantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to [](http://cornerofmadness.livejournal.com/profile)[**cornerofmadness**](http://cornerofmadness.livejournal.com/) for surgical and wound care know-how, and to [](http://enemytosleep.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://enemytosleep.livejournal.com/)**enemytosleep** again for Al's State Alchemist name. You guys should probably know that her other suggestion was Reacharound. XD

Al liked mornings: they were a good time to think. The July sky outside was a clean, bright blue. He had the windows open, blowing a breeze all the way through the little apartment he shared with Ed and wiping the last traces of sleepiness from his mind. There was a kettle steaming on the stove, and Ed was fetching breakfast from the deli. It was a shame that this morning Al's research project was to research the various nasty uses that an infant Homunculus might be put to.

It was also a shame that there was another damn mouse in front of the sofa.

Al looked at it from the corner of his eye. It was chewing on a corner of toast. It looked pretty happy. They always did. The mice in their building were generally fat, shiny and contented-looking, some of them big enough that he and Ed had debated whether they might actually be baby rats. The mouse apparently decided it had had enough breakfast, and started washing its ears. Al stayed where he was, pretending to read and running a quick distance calculation in his head. He slowly lowered his right hand to lie by his left on top of the book. Then, keeping his eyes on the mouse, he tapped his fingertips together, and applied them to the table. The little array sank into the woodgrain, and he felt its force run down into the floor.

From the corner of Al's eye, he saw a little fence of wood shoot up from the floor to circle the mouse. There was silence, then a harsh scratching sound. Al walked over and took a look. There was the mouse, fur on end, scrabbling at one wall and attempting already to find an edge to chew on. There was also a terrible smell of ozone. He really had to work on that.

Now the question was, could he put the floorboards back without leaving a big, obvious ring in the wood grain? They had sworn up and down to their landlord that they weren't going to do alchemy in the apartment. Of course, this was a tissue of lies, but they didn't want to be actually caught out. Al opened one of the windows wider and wafted the air around him with a newspaper. Then he went to get a coffee mug and a bit of cardboard.

Mouse carefully in place, he stuffed his keys in his pocket, then popped downstairs and out to the garbage dumpster around the corner. Once released, the mouse looked around itself for a moment, as if to say, _what the hell was that, man?_ Then it skittered off and vanished into the shadows.

"You know when you do that the mice just come straight back, right?"

"Brother, it's not like they just climb the stairs back up." Al straightened and turned.

"What, you don't think mice can climb? You think stairs defeat them?" Ed shook his head derisively. "How do they get to the apartment in the first place, then?"

"You're missing the point," Al said as they climbed the stairs to their apartment. "I really doubt the same mice are coming back - it's just that this building has an awful lot of them."

Inside their flat, the kettle was whistling. Ed jogged into the kitchen to take it off the heat.

"I'm right about this, you know," he yelled from the kitchen. "Next time you catch one we should tag it, like colour a bit of fur red or something."

"It's different mice every time! Our problem," said Al, flopping onto the sofa and rummaging in Ed's bag of pastries, "is that our mousecatching solution can't adequately contain the hungry mice of 88b Palmer Street."

"We are _not_ getting a cat," said Ed from the kitchen.

"What's the issue? We're not travelling, we have a permanent address. C'mon."

"The landlord says no pets."

"Yeah, well, the landlord says no alchemy. Funny seeing you on the side of the law. I guess the uniformed life is getting to you."

"But - " Ed waved his arms, needled. Croissant flakes dropped. "What if we're both away?"

"Then we'll just get someone from the office to look after the cat. And why are you _feeding_ the mice?"

"Huh?" Al pointed at the croissant crumbs on the floorboards. Ed tutted. "There's no _way_ you expect me to sweep up every time I drop a speck of something! That's crazy."

"I do it!"

Ed made a dismissive noise. "You're weird like that."

"I'm not cleaning your crap up! Why do you even have a problem with getting a cat? Bet you can't even give me a reason."

"But - c'mon. Is this the best time? I mean, what with everything that's happening in the country right now?"

"Major Hawkeye has a dog. She had a puppy and plotted revolution and it all worked out fine! And cats are way more independent! They can catch their own food." Al eyeballed him. "Is this about that one time I wouldn't let you take the armchair because the hotel cat was sleeping in it?"

"You picked me up and put me under your arm!"

"Brother, it was five years ago!" Al was starting to feel aggravated enough himself to justify aiming a little below the belt. "So now I can tell you it was hilarious 'cause you were so tiny. I just had to pick you up by the scruff of the neck, like a little kitten -"

"Because I was supporting the growth of your body _and_ mine! It's all down to me you're a freaking beanpole now, _Bridgewire_. I _donated_ you at least two inches of that height." On that, Ed turned on his heel and went to the kitchen to retrieve the coffee.

"Brother, Mom's family were all really short," Al called after him.

Ed re-entered with a coffee pot and two mugs, and sat down next to Al. His face was set in a way that told Al it was time to call a halt to the teasing before he got really pissed. Ah well, it was time to get down to work anyway. Al filled the cups while Ed picked up Al's notes and leafed through them. He picked up one of the other notebooks on the coffee table, a much older one, and gently turned the pages.

"Old man had terrible handwriting," Ed muttered. "Is that an 'n' or a 'w'?"

"It's an 'n'," said Al. "See, I was right to save these before we burnt the house. You were all, _there's no way we'll ever need those_."

"What do you want? I was twelve, I thought I knew everything." Ed traced his finger over a diagram. "Did you see this proof here?"

"Yeah. That does seem kind of definitive." Al blew a breath up into his bangs. Dad's notes on homunculi weren't exactly bearing good news.

"Drives me crazy how long it took us to crack the code on these things. We could have had these answers months ago." Ed leaned forward, notes in his lap, and cupped his coffee mug in both hands. "Although I guess I can see why Dad would want such a badass code for this stuff."

Al noticed the word, and the marginal shift in his brother's voice: both were recent developments in Ed's attitude to their father. Al schooled his face and took a sip of coffee. "Well, the handwriting definitely didn't make it easier. Even yours is neater than -"

"Son of a bitch!" Another mouse - definitely not the same one! - had been nibbling on one of Ed's croissant crumbs. When Ed yelled, it bolted.

***

  


  


  


***

"Here's the deal," said the chirpy young doctor with the clipboard. "We need to wait four days to check there's no bacteria still present in your thigh - that we got all the gangrene. After that, we'll need to go in again, but what we do is up to you. Either we flap the stump, or we do automail port surgery."

She looked at Brosch expectantly, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure why. She was pretty, he noticed absently. She didn't seem much older than him. Could you be his age and a doctor? He guessed you could.

The silence extended. What had she said again? Two options? Brosch blinked. "Two?" he said. He felt like an idiot. Was it the drugs? He looked up at the IV. He had no idea what was in that bottle draining into his arm. He was getting really sick of being connected to tubes at both ends. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked back at the doctor.

"Flapping the stump," the doctor continued, " means we'd let the skin heal over. You'd be transferred to a regular rehab centre, and then home, and we'd fit you with a prosthetic leg. Port surgery means creating a dock in your thigh stump for an automail port. It's far easier to do that right now, with a new wound, than it would be later on. We can book you in for next Monday morning, and given the condition of the wound, it's likely we could fit the port in one operation." It was obvious from her tone that she thought of this as fantastic news.

Brosch blinked. He'd had this conversation already, he realised, several times. It was weird how despite how out of it he was, this was the first time it seemed real. He looked down at the empty space where, this time yesterday, his right leg had been.

His buddy Mike's sister had gotten an automail foot after a car accident. According to Mike, she'd said it had hurt more than childbirth. Good to know.

  


***

It was all about the science, now.

Theoretical alchemy was full of tough calls to make; Ed was walking proof that a formula that balanced perfectly on paper didn't always trade properly in practice. So far, though, everything he and Al were getting was bad news.

He slung his legs down from the library sofa, got up, and stretched. It was 1815, near enough. Mustang was running late.

Ed stuck his head out of the open window for a moment and smelled the summer air of the city: a ripe mixture of greenery, car fumes and cooking food. As he ducked back in, he noticed a mark on one of the bookcase locks. He touched a finger to it. It was grease pencil. Was it old? Or did Mustang still work the alchemical locks by scribbling the array, even when he was alone?

In all the time since the Promised Day, Ed hadn't seen Mustang clap once. He got how the fire alchemy would work quicker one-handed, but for everyday stuff like this - why bother to draw out the formula when you could just think it? One more part of the mystery of how Mustang's brain worked. Ed was puzzling him out, though, bit by bit.

Keys clattered in the door: it was the man himself. Ed ran an automatic hand over his bangs and the back of his hair, to check it wasn't coming out of the tie. Then he caught himself and felt like an idiot. He still pulled his shirt straight, just for the sake of it.

"Fullmetal?"

"In the study."

Footsteps: Mustang headed straight for the kitchen and coffeepot, as he always did when Ed was working at his place. A few moments later he appeared in the doorway. Ed had arranged himself on the couch with his notebook and coffee mug. Mustang nodded at him, and came to sit next to him. Ed only had a single page of notes to show him: the news was simple, and nasty.

Mustang set his coffee down, took the notebook. Ed scrubbed a hand across his face. This work was getting to him. He kept seeing it - a hundred eyes sliding across skin that was merely a void. He imagined his old man at his age, standing in a dusty laboratory, learning alchemy from a cloud in a jar. The future was pressing down upon him, and he could feel his own pulse through the small patch of skin where Mustang's knee touched his through cloth.

Mustang shifted in his seat and moved a couple of inches away from Ed on the couch. Ed stayed where he was. A moment later, Mustang tapped the notes and exhaled hard. "The absence of God?" he said.

"Here's the deal," said Ed. "We've been confirming this from my old man's notes in the last couple of days. The only guy we know who actually ever put _takwin_ into practice and created life was Hohenheim's master. He didn't believe in the Xerxean gods - you know, all those guys with the lion heads and camel heads and whatever? He believed in a single force. He said you could call it God, but really, it was - lemme quote this to you." He leaned into Mustang's space and flipped to the right spot in the note book. " _We call it God, but just so we might call it the world, or the universe, or the all, or the one, or_ -"

Mustang had gone rigid next to him.

" _The Truth_ ," Ed finished quietly. "This guy didn't believe in demons or devils, but he believed there was this thing, _the absence of God_ , which was like a negative image of the Truth. And that's what a homunculus is made from."

Mustang silently handed the notebook to Ed, and took a slow sip of coffee. His movements were casual, but there was nothing relaxed about him. The tension coming off him almost hummed.

"But how is that possible? One is all, all is one - if the Truth is _everything_ , how can it have a negative image?"

"Nothing. Pure absence, animated by human blood."

"Then how can a homunculus be full of wisdom?"

Ed frowned. "Al's better at this part. I freaking hate theology and metaphysics and all that."

Mustang laughed shortly. "I agree. More than ever, these days. But tell me."

"Okay, you've got to know about light theory, right? How black and white both contain every colour on the spectrum?"

"You're saying, same content, different perspective?"

"There's this school of Xingese meditation that believes enlightenment is an empty mind. Al studied it when he was over there learning rentanjutsu. To make yourself a conduit for alchemical energy, you clear your mind. So, the Xerxeans kind of thought that way too. But a homunculus isn't really equivalent to the Truth. That's a _perfected_ homunculus. Well, in theory." Ed pulled a face.

"That's what the Homunculus - what Father was trying to do, yes? Perfect itself."

"If you make a homunculus, you're supposed to limit its growth. Once it could talk, you could keep it in its jar with no power at all. Then it would just be a kind of ultimate alchemical advisor - because it's kind of plugged into the Truth, right?"

"The _No power at all_ version sounds quite dangerous enough. The Homunculus destroyed all of Xerxes in a night from its jar, didn't it?"

"Yeah. Here's the other part." Ed showed his notebook again. "Limiting its growth can also mean you give it some power, but only a little."

"Power?" Mustang looked at him, and Ed felt the challenge and met his eyes. Up this close, the stare was kind of intense. "Power as in Philosopher's Stone?"

"Yeah," said Ed. "They can use it as a weapon. But to do that, they've got to feed it on souls."

***

There wasn't much more to talk about. "Tomorrow afternoon," said Mustang, "I want you back researching this. Bridgewire too. We'll tell the State Alchemist admin that you're out of the office taking a survey of the current suitable examination grounds."

"Got it." Ed stood and stuffed his notes into his book bag. Mustang walked him to the door. Ed felt a sudden urge to say something else before he left. He had no idea why. "So what did I miss at the canteen today? Was it bad?"

"It was the suspicious hot dogs," said Mustang wrinkling his nose. "I was working through lunch, Fuery brought me one."

"How can they smell so good and taste so weird? It's like this amazing chemical trick."

"Frying onions? Old bar trick, if you waft the smell of fried onions out the door at dinner time, people follow their noses straight in the door."

"I thought that, but that doesn't explain how the onions can be so bad. It's like onions and oil, how can you even get that wrong?"

Mustang leaned in the doorway and looked at Ed through his bangs.

Ed wanted to say, _we're doing it again, aren't we?_ This had happened before - last time they'd just stood chatting in the doorway like this, then Ed had looked at his watch and realised they'd been there for fifteen minutes.

He didn't say it. He grinned and ducked his head. "See you tomorrow, jackass," he said, and started down the stairs with a backwards wave.

He was two floors down before he heard Mustang shut the door.

***

"Tuesday is the new Friday," said Breda to the room at large, as he cracked open a fresh can of beer.

"Yay Tuesday," added Catalina. From her perch on the sofa arm next to Havoc, she waved her glass of girly pink wine.

"Refill over here," waved Havoc. Breda tossed him a can and he caught it one-handed; the other hand was occupied by a pizza slice.

"So, has your ma calmed down any?" asked Breda. Last Sunday, Havoc's mother had read a big article in the Eastern Telegraph speculating about the prospect of civil war. She had promptly flipped her gourd. It had taken her a long time to get used to the idea that her only son was not only living on his own in the big city again, but back in the army - and that was when Havoc's position could be passed off as a nice safe desk job. It was getting so that pretty much the whole country knew that working for Mustang was about as nice and safe as a ticket to the front.

"My cousin Gabrielle managed to talk her down a bit." Havoc exhaled, and absently leaned into Catalina's side. She put her free hand to the back of his neck. "It's tough. What do you say? Things aren't cool right now, and everyone knows it."

"My parents are trying to get me to retire again," said Ross. "I've told them about ten times that - besides anything else - I'm tied into my contract, but the message just doesn't seem to get through." She sighed. "I really do hate worrying them after everything they've been through. But you're right, what can you do?"

" _Onwards and upwards_ ," said Breda, in a well-honed impression of Mustang's clipped baritone. He got laughter and raised drinks from the room at large.

Catalina raised a finger and circled it around the room. "Enough depressing politics stuff! So, tell us about your love life … Fuery."

"Nothing new," muttered Fuery, looking a little bit cornered. He gripped his glass of rosé wine nervously, and scratched Hayate's ears with his other hand. The little dog leaned his head in for a moment, then got distracted and ran off in front of fresh victims. Breda was watching that mutt. It might look adorable, but he had its number. It had been lying at Hawkeye's side, unobtrusive enough to be just about bearable. Then Fuery had just had to coax it over to the centre of the room, thereby inviting it to the party to sneak everyone's pizza, jump in laps, and generally act like a dog.

"Come say hi," said Havoc, hypnotised as ever by the little bugger's charm. Hayate bounced over, and Havoc poured the foamy dregs of his previous beer out onto the floorboards. Hayate licked them up happily.

"Aw, lookit," said Catalina in a goofy voice. "You like that, huh?"

Breda shook his head. From her seat on the floor by the other couch, Hawkeye glanced over. "Hayate!" she called. "Stop that."

"What?" said Havoc. "I feed my cousin's dogs beer all the time, they love it."

"He might well love it, but it's not good for him." There was a bit of a smile around Hawkeye's eyes.

Havoc grinned. "Think I know how he feels. Come on up here, boy!" Hayate jumped up on the couch, and Havoc and Catalina started fussing with his ears.

"Watch out for sneak attacks," said Hawkeye. Major Miles chuckled. Hawkeye was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against Miles' calf as he sat on the couch. Barring her incredibly rare reunion hugs, that was the most touchy-feely Breda had seen her, ever. Miles could be a real hardass in the office, so Breda's prediction had been that he'd make Hawkeye even more stiff and terrifying. It seemed he'd been dead wrong on all counts. Off-duty, Miles was sharp-tongued and deadpan funny; and Hawkeye right now was eating a pizza slice with her bare hands and looking downright mellow.

"Okay, so now tell me about _your_ love life …" Rebecca circled her finger again. "… Maria. Where's the wife tonight?"

"Xingese classes," said Ross, "and don't say _wife_ , we've only been dating two months."

"Tell us about _your_ love life, Catalina," called Breda. "We need more beer money."

"I have nothing to hide," declared Catalina. "Unlike some people. I know you're holding out on us, pal. Who's the chick?"

"What chick?" said Breda. Crappy, but he didn't have time for better.

"The chick who's clearly been keeping you from us. You're never around and you're all cagey about it, what's up with that?"

Havoc just shrugged at him and took a sip of beer. Whatever happened to the Guy Code?

Still, there was no way Breda was giving the peanut gallery any info on this one. "I'm just a busy man," said Breda. "Hey Ross, what's the news on Brosch?"

"I saw him today at lunch," said Ross. "He's got himself booked in for automail surgery now. He's going for it."

"Wow," said Fuery.

"Good for him," said Miles. He raised his mug of tea. "To absent friends! And to the road ahead."

Beer cans, glasses and tea mugs were raised around the room, and held for a moment of silence. Breda looked around the room and felt that expansive, sappy feeling in his chest that told him firstly that his comrades were the best, and secondly that he should start to go easy on the Stray Dog.

"Dude!" yelled Havoc suddenly. "Not cool!" It seemed that Hayate had just inhaled his entire pizza slice. The dog was now happily licking the grease off his fingers while Havo stared in shock.

Breda failed to catch himself before he snickered. He seriously hoped the little mutt wasn't growing on him.

***

Winry was scribbling fast, catching up on her case notes before the last patient of the day, when her boss popped his head around the door and made the phone sign with his thumb and pinky. She nodded and smiled automatically, finished her sentence and trotted out to the phone, thinking of PT regimens, stretching exercises and pain management techniques.

The voice on the end of the phone sounded tired, but pretty alert, considering. "Are you out of bed?" asked Winry, surprised. How had Warrant Officer Brosch gotten to the phone?

"I have a phone right here. Apparently, they transferred me to the Bradley Centre right after - they operated."

Winry repressed a snort. The Bradley Centre was the military's big automail clinic in Central. They were infamous in Rush Valley for turning up and trying to recruit their best mechanics by wooing them with free lunches, free gadgets and promises of filthy lucre. Winry and some of her friends made a point of turning up, ignoring all offers, and taking as many sandwiches and freebies as they could. The Bradley Centre was also notorious for subtly pressuring amputee soldiers straight into automail rehab. This kind of move was absolutely typical.

"How are you feeling?"

While Brosch talked, Winry pulled a rag out of her overall pockets and wiped off her hands. Mr Garfiel set a cup of jasmine tea down on the phone table and she smiled her thanks. Brosch was apparently recovering well from the amputation; he seemed lucid, if rather tired, he was coping well with the pain, and from what he said about the Bradley Centre having far better food, it seemed he was eating.

"So, I'm calling to take you up on the offer."

Winry blinked. She'd thought this was going to be one of those long, exploratory conversations with a potential client still wrapping their head around the idea of having a chunk of metal permanently attached. Part of her was delighted, and another part was trained enough to rein in her delight. "We didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

"Well, I decided. So what's the point in waiting longer?"

Winry drew a breath and started on her new patient spiel. She talked him through the first couple of stages again, the risks, benefits, hardships and commitments. She knew he had until Monday to change his mind, and she guessed that when she checked in with him before his port surgery, he wouldn't have. People surprised you all the time.

After she hung up, she took the appointment book over to Mr Garfiel's clinic room, and gestured to the slot she'd kept free for Brosch. Winry didn't have any doubts about sticking her neck out, but she certainly had a few about getting her mentor involved. "So," she said, "are you really okay with doing this? I could still take Warrant Officer Brosch on as a private client. The Atelier's name wouldn't have to be on anything at all."

Mr Garfiel deposited his cup of tea in its saucer with a delicate little clink, and shook his head. "This would have happened some time anyway. We get so many clients from the military. I'm glad it happened this way instead of with one of Hakuro's bunch of a-holes trying to get on our books. I told you before, sweetie. It's _make your mind up time_ in this country. And I have no problem with everyone knowing whose side Atelier Garfiel is on."

Winry reached over and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back and winked at her.

Her next patient was due. Mr Pettifer, routine check-up on his left hand, fitted nine years ago at Valance's but redesigned last year by Winry. She bustled through to her clinic room, making a mental note to call Brosch's surgeon at the Bradley Centre tomorrow morning. She sighed as she went. Sure, they might see the irony, but when they found out what she was doing, Ed and Al were going to just flip.


	3. Something Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al has tea and cake with an old acquaintance, and Roy and Ed do something very, very predictable.

When the phone call came through, Al had been planning on a long research day with his father's notes. Instead, he'd hurriedly got changed into uniform and headed into headquarters to meet the car.

This meeting had taken forever to arrange. Hakuro's guys had found excuse after excuse to block it: committee meetings, security arrangements, scheduling conflicts - all of it red tape. Now that a chance had come up to get in before the next excuse, they'd had to move fast.

The car turned up the long drive. The house was large and old, and the security impressive but low-key. Out on the front lawn, a tea table was set, and three heavy-set men in suits stood discreet guard. The person they'd come to see was racing toy cars along the rim of a fountain.

Mrs Bradley was exactly as Al remembered her nearly three years ago: sweet, twinkly and slightly loopy. "The sponge cake is a lemon drizzle," she said, "and the other is a banana nut loaf. They're both home-made. The cook teases me for it, but I do love to bake, it's such a calming thing to do of a morning." She poured tea into their cups. "Do help yourself to milk and sugar. And I hope you're not planning to upset Selim?"

"We just have a few questions for him, to see if he can help with Bridgewire's research," said Captain Ross.

"He's a good little boy," said Mrs Bradley, passing her a cup of tea. She turned to Al, and there was a surprising hint of steel to her look. "Whatever he might have been, and whatever else he might be now: he's a little boy and I'm his mother."

"Please don't worry about that," said Al, trying a warm and reassuring smile. "We're not here to hurt him."

"Selim, dear! Put the racecar down and come and have some cake with our guests."

At the word cake, the small boy by the fountain paid considerably more attention. He trotted over. Selim Bradley looked like a smaller version of himself as Al had known him: a sturdy little boy of around three or four with big, dark eyes. The only noticeably odd thing about him was the tattoo-like two concentric circles in the centre of his forehead. That, and the fact that two years ago, he had been a baby the size of a man's thumbnail.

Al quieted his mind and went over his impressions of the boy's _qi_. Yep, only one soul in there. It felt weird, and you could tell he wasn't quite human - not that that told you much. Chimerae felt weird, and most of the chimerae Al knew were pretty cool people.

With a hand from Mrs Bradley, Selim hopped up onto a chair and swung his legs over the edge, eyeing the cake. Mrs Bradley passed him half a slice of lemon cake and a glass of milk. She watched him meaningfully for a second after he grabbed his cake. "Thank you, Mama," he piped obediently, then stuffed a chunk into his mouth.

At first, he seemed so different from Pride, the cruel little monster who had crawled inside Al's head and used him like a puppet, but then, Al remembered Selim's little boy act, his enthusiasm and silliness and energy. It had been so convincing. It was a disquieting thought.

Al opened his bag. In his peripheral vision, the security guys twitched. He pulled out a sketch and held it in front of Selim. "Do you know who this is?"

Selim frowned at it fiercely. Al and Ross shifted in their seats.

"No," said Selim. He picked up a chunk of cake and started licking the icing off.

"Are you sure?" asked Ross. "Who does he look like to you?"

"Old man with a beard," said Selim through his cake.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dear," said Mrs Bradley.

Al tried another picture: long tendrils of stringy hair, and a grin that still raised his hackles although he hadn't seen it for years. "What about this man? Have you seen him before?"

"That's not a man," said Selim, sounding offended, "that's a lady."

"Actually -" said Ross. "Well -"

Al shrugged at her. "I never quite worked that one out."

He moved on. Selim grabbed the third picture, delighted. "That lady's got big bosoms!"

Mrs Bradley put a hand to her cheek in mock consternation. "Now, Selim. What did we talk about regarding -"

He levelled a finger at Maria Ross. "This lady's got small bosoms! Why?"

"- personal remarks."

"Why don't you have big bosoms?" Selim waved the card at Ross, happily.

She took it from him. "Well, we're all made differently. We're - good _god_ , Alphonse. This is what she looked like?"

Al pulled a sympathetic face and nodded.

"That explains a lot," Ross muttered.

Then - well, it was worth one last go. "Selim. We need you to help us. I know it's hard, but - do you remember what a homunculus is?"

Selim looked at him, cheerful and blank, and shook his head. "I've got a stick insect," he announced. "Do you want to see my stick insect?"

"Oh well," said Ross in the car on the way back to headquarters, "at least they had nice cake."

"I liked the stick insect," said Al. "Did you know they can regrow their legs if they lose them?" Maria shook her head. "Selim seems like a good kid, right? And Mrs Bradley seems okay?"

"They seem like nice people," said Ross, in a very guarded voice. Al dropped the subject.

***

It was 2250 now, and the conversation still flowed on its course. The air between them buzzed. Roy's skin prickled. He was seriously, properly considering yawning theatrically, or maybe just telling Ed bluntly that he had to kick him out and get to bed now. It was too late, really. The conversation was good. He was making too much of this.

"-made me stand there, like all morning, with this bucket of water balanced on my head." Ed's grin filled his whole face. "No kidding. And of course I was thinking _what the hell does this have to do with alchemy_?"

"You mean you actually restrained yourself from saying what was going through your head at any given moment? I'm going to have to call her up and ask her for hints -"

"You've got no chance of ever being that scary, you know."

Roy threw his head back and laughed. Edward blinked at him, then gave him a slow grin.

"Now, my tutor did have some real exercises, but mostly it was just the tedious household chores. My first week there, he asked me to paint his garden fence. And of course he had no paint and I didn't know which kind to get, and all the time, I was making all these guesses about what philosophical lesson this was going to teach me -"

"Ha, and it turns out the lesson is _don't get suckered_? How long did it take you to pick that one up? Did you end up repainting the whole house?"

"Drawing a veil over that one. The funny thing was, the man didn't give a damn about housework or domestic tasks. He'd have lived happily in a cobwebbed attic if Riza had let him. I think it was largely about power games, about showing me who was boss -"

"So you did learn a big life lesson, huh?"

The clock in the corner ticked on.

***

Ed hadn't had a good day. The facts were still nasty. He'd spent a lot of time pacing Mustang's study and thinking: about the theoretical problem he was trying to solve, about the war that was probably coming, the future of the country and the fate of his friends. He was trying not to pin too much hope on Al's meeting with Selim Bradley. Part of him wanted - fuck knows why - to see that little shit get a fresh start, but if he really had his fresh start, Selim wouldn't be able to help them at all.

"Any new discoveries?" Mustang was standing in the doorway, freshly home from the office.

"Not today. Sorry. Working out how long we've got, in theory, how we're going to fight it - it's more than a day's work. I was hoping I could get through the first chunk of it today, but it's just not there yet."

"No news. Selim remembers nothing. Or, he's dissembling. Anyway, Bridgewire confirms there's only one soul in there - but nothing we didn't know before."

"Huh," said Ed. _Crap_. As soon as Mustang said it, he realised that all day he'd been secretly hoping they'd get something out of this.

"Another avenue closed," said Mustang. "Onwards and upwards." His voice was quiet and wry, and he didn't look at Ed. Instead he looked over to the window, arms folded and one shoulder leaning into the wall. Ed realised with a little pang how damn tired Mustang was looking. He had smudges under his eyes and he was kind of thin in the face. The memory came back to Ed, suddenly, of the shock he'd felt three years ago seeing Mustang after he'd got out of hospital that time: this person he had absently considered invincible, moving stiffly from the wound in his side, looking worn down, ill, _human_.

Mustang finally looked up. Ed met his eyes, and repressed the instinct to duck his head.

Mustang said quietly, "It's late. Don't worry about finishing this up tonight. Just go home, pick up this tomorrow. We can cook up some reason to for you to run an errand out of the office."

Ed said - why did he say it? "Actually, I wanted to run this whole thing by you. I'm kind of" - well, he wasn't stuck, it was just - "I could do with an outside perspective. Something about this theory just seems off."

"Fire away." Mustang's eyes were half closed.

"Uh. Well. I'm actually starving. What I was gonna do was, before you got back, I was gonna pick up some takeout and then ask you about it when you got in. Hate debating on an empty stomach." Mustang's eyes narrowed. Ed felt suddenly conspicuous. "Did you eat yet? How 'bout I go pick up some food and we can talk while we eat? I mean, we both need to eat dinner, right?"

Ed realised he'd got it all out in a single breath. It wasn't a big deal, this, it was just - the boundaries thing. All these barriers that had stood between him and Mustang, all these years. Now they were becoming - well - friends, and he kept expecting to get a shade too close and hit Mustang's defences, or his own, he didn't know which. But the walls all just seemed to slide away when he got near them. He couldn't work it out.

If Mustang was thrown by the invitation, he didn't show it. He mulled it over for a fractional moment, then said, "Where was this food going to come from?"

"The good Cretan place up two blocks - not the nearest one, the next one."

"Ruko? Sounds good." And that was all. Without further debate, he fished a note out of his wallet and asked for the chicken with plums.

***

At 2300, they were still sitting on the sofa. The alchemic textbook they'd been looking at earlier was still set aside on the floor.

"Funnily enough," said Roy, warming to his theme, "we could solve the issue of if a coup would violate constitutional law with a few well-placed bribes. Right now, the judiciary is only a separate power until we lean on them hard enough or slip them a fat enough envelope of cash."

"But you're not going to, right?" Ed leaned forward and gave him that hard stare that meant he was on the verge of one of his rants. "What's the point of -"

"Yes, yes, calm down, Fullmetal. Or you could explain my own political programme to me; I'm sure your insights would be brilliant for helping me work out things I worked out eight years ago -"

Ed snorted and relaxed. "Don't blame me if you look easy to corrupt -"

Roy raised an eyebrow at him and grinned. "All depends on the arena. Purity's excellent in politics, but out of hours -"

"Yeesh, I'll bet," said Ed, waving a dismissive hand.

This was banter. It absolutely wasn't flirting.

***

And so Ed stayed for dinner. Roy ordered, and Ed picked it up. They ate aubergine stew and chicken with plums at the kitchen table, and talked theory. At some point while Edward was out getting their order, Roy had a brief, warning instinct about where this evening might be headed. It seemed ridiculous, but he knew what that buzz in the air felt like. Unless he was imagining this? Which was possible. His libido always shot up in times of stress, and it seemed to love inappropriate hypothetical targets. Anyway, if something were to happen, not that that was even likely, it was obvious that he shouldn't. For a moment, he turned the whole stupid, hypothetical situation over in his mind. He considered his escape routes. _On second thoughts, I'm busy_ : the about-face without explanation, which would be rude, and would provoke a fight, then an embarrassing explanation of the refusal. _This is inappropriate_ , which made him look like an idiot for taking up Ed's offer in the first place, and besides being just as rude as the first excuse, was also pretty illogical given the number of hours Ed and Al had spent working in his library recently, at all hours, with good reasons for doing so. _Perhaps you'd better not stay_ : the frank presumption of trouble, which was bound to backfire embarrassingly on him. _This is just dinner_ : the pre-emptive setting of boundaries, ditto. Roy dismissed it all, in the end. He was over-thinking; there was no problem with dinner. After all, they were both hungry.

Again, Roy took the temperature of the day. Their big lead had led them to nothing they didn't already know; a Homunculus could build alchemical weapons. Meanwhile half the brass vacillated, not giving him enough support to act without plunging his whole country into blood and riot. And somewhere in a hospital in Central, another of his men had poured away blood for this future he was trying to get them to. Talking theory with Fullmetal was an odd way to distract himself enough to get a night's sleep - but it seemed to be working. He and Ed were sitting on the sofa, balancing an ancient, oversized textbook between their laps. He watched Ed tracing the path of the diagram with his forefinger. Their heads were close together.

"Now," said Ed triumphantly, challengingly, "tell me that's not elegant."

It was, actually: one of those formulae that cut beautifully through a complex task. "It's elegant." He slipped a bit of teasing into his tone - maybe get a bit of a rise out of Edward.

Admittedly, this array had nothing to do with the problem they were supposed to be discussing. Ed's debate had taken only ten minutes in the end; now they were talking alchemy for pleasure. Worse, they were agreeing. Worse still, it was absorbing. It was twenty-two hundred, and Ed had shown no signs of being about to go home. The more the time slipped on and the further their conversation turned from work - from the reason they'd shared dinner in the kitchen in the first place - the more an irrational feeling of suspense hovered in Roy's stomach. He should make a move to wind things up, tell Ed he was exhausted, thank him for dinner. No, he was being overdramatic. He socialised with his subordinates all the time. Nothing would probably happen anyway, and even if he was wrong about that - well, nothing would happen if he decided it wouldn't happen. So why not?

***

By a quarter to midnight Roy had abandoned his twitchiness, abandoned his caution and anxiety. He couldn't remember when he'd last relaxed this much. Perhaps that was why? He was slouched on the sofa, one arm slung along the back, hand propping up his head. Ed stretched out next to him.

They were talking about The Lemon Tree, a street cafe they'd discovered they both knew, on a little square not too far from Central Headquarters. The Lemon Tree did superb, incredibly fresh coffee, which was something they would both go out of their way for - but the trade-off was that you had to put up with the astoundingly rude waitstaff. Another thing they had in common, apparently, was that on their separate visits they had both come to turn this into a contest of oneupmanship. Ed's opponent of choice there was a middle-aged waiter with a moustache. He was halfway through a story which, judging by the fanged grin on Ed's face, was clearly going to involve some kind of ill-advised but entertaining revenge, and quite possibly the revelation that now Edward couldn't go back to The Lemon Tree any time soon.

"You're banned from there, aren't you? This is how the story finishes, you got banned."

"I did not! Well - sort of, not really. Only when moustache guy's on shift?"

Roy rolled his eyes. "Oho, you see, this is where thinking short-term gets you. Where are you going to get your perfect espresso now?"

He flicked his head around to catch Ed's eye, and was amused and slightly startled to find Ed leaning forward into his space, grinning, full of the story - but before Ed continued, something in his face shifted. The smile softened. Neither of them looked away. By the time Roy realised what was about to happen, they had already begun to kiss.

It took the first few moments for Roy's mind to come back to him. He had no idea which of them had moved first. Through the haze of lust and sensation, he found himself strangely aware of the silence in the room: the ticking of the clock, their heavy breaths, the occasional creak of the sofa springs.

There was almost no pause or hesitation in the kissing. When they first pulled away to lean on each other, breathing hard, Roy expected for sure that Ed would stop there with no need for him to push the matter. His stomach tightened in anticipation of the mortifying scene that was about to follow - and then Ed had moved back in. His fingers were in Roy's hair. Roy returned it all unthinkingly, and then remembered again that this was a terrible, terrible idea, the very thing he'd been trying to avoid - and then he promptly forgot again. He somehow had a hand up the back of Ed's shirt now, and his skin was so very warm. He should have said something. He should have - why the hell hadn't he, then? Now he was breathless, full of sensation and intent; it was getting difficult to think.

It was only when Ed leaned back a little and stripped off his own shirt in one clean movement that Roy found the strength to put a hand to his arm and stop him.

Ed blinked at him, eyes huge. The shirt hung off one arm. Roy couldn't look at him when he looked like that: shirtless, his hair coming undone, breathing hard. Roy screwed his eyes shut and said, through clenched teeth, "I don't know what we're doing."

The silence was weighty and horrible. Roy opened his eyes, and saw that Ed was looking off to one side. He was flushed, frowning furiously. His lips looked dark and wet. Then Ed's head snapped around. "Fuck," he said, "you wanted to do this a minute ago, what?"

"I want to." Roy had said it before he'd thought better. "I really - but look, that's not the point -"

"You could get in trouble? How -"

"No, of course I won't, I'm brass, I mean _you_ -"

"I'm _fine_ -" Ed cut in, rolling his eyes.

"No, I mean, this is just -" For tonight? What _was_ this?

"Yeah, cool, I mean, yeah." Ed nodded vigorously. Maybe Roy was reading this wrong, then. At Ed's age, hadn't Roy occasionally slept with superiors, with people much older than him? Hadn't it been all right? Hadn't he kept good terms with them, been able to look them in the eye the next day? But was Roy just making excuses for himself? Was he letting his dick think for him, then justifying it? Or was he over-thinking?

"No, I mean it, don't do this unless you're sure you won't regret -"

"Yes! Just stop _talking_ about it if you're gonna! Yes!" Ed's hands twitched in the air. His eyes were wide.

"Oh good." All Roy's self-control sighed out of him on the last word. He leaned right into Ed and bowled him straight onto his back on the sofa. Ed's hands were immediately at the back of his shirt, untucking it, and it was almost frightening how much Roy wanted this now, this thing that had been an idle thought, a passing glance, this thing which had had no power over him.

After that, things began to happen very fast.

Roy didn't even manage to get his own shirt off. One minute they were undressing each other, then - Roy managed to yank down Ed's trousers and boxers, and palmed him with one hand. He was hard. Roy curled his fingers, and Ed made a low, grunting sound in his throat, thrust into Roy's hand and pulled him forward convulsively with the automail arm at his back. The motion was shockingly strong and unyielding. Ed worked his other hand into Roy's pants and pulled him out. Roy arched forward, their cocks brushed each other and Roy opened his hand to pull them together.

And that was it. The moment he'd started to pump, there was absolutely no way he could stop. They thrust at each other, half-dressed on the sofa, impeded by their own clothes, both so worked up already. The speed of it all stunned Roy: less than five minutes ago, they'd been having some stupid conversation about coffee, and now they were having sex on the couch? The remaining fragments of his rational brain pointed out to him that Ed was likely to be dressed and leaving in scant minutes: if Roy was going to misbehave, why waste it on a quickie when he could have taken all night about it? But he couldn't hang on to the thought. Ed's teeth were scraping over the side of his neck and he was making ridiculous, grunty little sex noises. Roy couldn't get enough breath to laugh at them.

The angle was awkward and a little uncomfortable. Roy managed to get one foot up onto the sofa cushions to keep his balance. His free arm was pressed into the back of the sofa, half-clutching at Ed's shoulder. The friction was less than ideal, too. There was no possibility of getting up to get something. Roy shifted, and tried to get some of the stickiness on his thumb between them, which wasn't exactly easy.

Ed looked down, then grabbed Roy's hand by the wrist, brought it up and spat liberally in his palm.

Roy wrinkled his nose a bit, and found himself saying, with something of the office sarcasm, "Yes, now _that's_ sexy."

Ed said, "Like you care," and shoved his hand back down again.

A moment later, it turned out that apparently, Roy didn't care. The slickness was delicious, and they got the rhythm back, and it all started getting very good again. It seemed like only a few seconds later that Ed thrust hard, ground his forehead into Roy's neck, spilled, then sagged against him. Roy just kept thrusting through it all. A few moments later Ed seemed to spring to life - he shifted forward, spat on his left hand again, then pulled Roy's hand off their cocks and substituted his own. Roy was balanced awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, pants tangled around his knees, held in place with Ed's right arm at his back. Roy hung on to Ed's waist, and stared vaguely at Ed's bangs plastered to his forehead as he felt himself cascade down.

A few moments later, Roy had his breath back enough to push his hair out of his eyes and look up. Their eyes met. A cushion shifted - and they both flailed, slipped, and landed hard on the floor.

They were still staring and clutching at each other. Ed blinked. Then they both burst out laughing.

***

***

Ed was oversleeping again; he had to be, he always made such a racket when he got up. Al shuffled out of bed, stretched, scratched his butt, and wandered through to the kitchen to make some toast.

"Brother!" he called after the kettle was on the stove and the bread was under the grill. "It's a quarter past nine already." There was no response. Al sighed. Ed's subconscious would do anything to avoid filing - including getting him in a ton of trouble.

"Brother! The house is on fire!" Silence. Al would have to go and prod him again. He should go on strike for a week, so Ed could see what happened when Al wasn't picking take-out containers off the floor and washing the hairs of off the sink. Then again, they already had mice. A week of no cleaning and they'd probably have rats the size of Hayate.

"Hey! Wake up, doofus! Major Miles is going to -" Al stopped in his tracks, hand on the doorknob. Ed's bed was empty. It was in its usual daytime state: blankets rumpled up, pillows strewn about. During a quick tidying session yesterday afternoon, Al had collected a small pile of Ed's books and clothes from around the flat and dropped them onto his bed. The pile was still in exactly the same position.

The bed hadn't been slept in.

 _Huh._

***

 _To be continued!_


	4. Two Plus Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed simultaneously overthinks and underthinks, Al gets the brothers a new roomie, and Breda does the fun kind of sneaking about.

Someone was trying to start a car, but it wasn't co-operating. The sound drifted up from the street: the starter motor screeching again and again, but the engine refusing to turn over. It dragged at Ed's consciousness vaguely. He knew a transmutation to start a stalled car if everything inside was working. Whenever he passed one on the street he always felt like he had to stop and help ... He rubbed his face into the pillow. Beside him, there was a shift of the mattress, a soft mutter. Someone ...?

Oh. Yeah.

Ed squeezed his eyes shut, and had a vivid, unreal flashback of the previous evening: his back stuck to the sofa leather with sweat, their foreheads pressed together, the dizzying, stomach-dropping speed with which it had all happened. One minute they had been talking, a blink of the eye and they were kissing, another blink and suddenly they were half-naked and clutching at each other, grinding and shuddering. He wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't dressed and left last night. After he'd washed up, he'd seen Mustang already stretched out on the bed, naked and half-asleep, and - staying had seemed like a good idea at the time? Part of Ed's brain wanted to grab his pants from wherever the fuck they were right now and run for the hills. Another part was kind of fascinated by this new aspect of the apparently endless, brain-breaking mystery of sex.

Ed sighed, opened his eyes, and turned.

He took in the sight of his commanding officer as he lay naked and unshaven beside him, with his hair sticking up and his sleepy eyes slitted half-open. Their eyes met. In the street, the driver tried to start the slowing, groaning starter one more time. The battery must be running down.

They held each other's gaze for one utterly confusing moment in which Ed knew nothing about what he wanted now, and could tell nothing of what Mustang might want. Ed's brain seemed to have frozen solid. All he could see was that face, somehow so different this close up, like looking at someone he'd never seen before. Then Mustang's fingertips were drifting lightly down Ed's side. Ed gravitated into the touch before he even thought about it. They shifted into each other's space easily. Ed stroked his left hand down Mustang's sleep-warmed back. Ed loved a good back. It was one of his weaknesses, with guys and girls alike. Mustang pecked his jaw, slung a leg over his, and drew forwards.

Thirty seconds later, Ed startled when he heard the engine of that car in the street finally fire, and then the car itself putter off. _Ha._ Then he became suddenly very conscious of where his hand was right now, and what was happening with it. Oh. So it appeared that they were now already having sex again. Weren't they supposed to be having a whole excruciating morning after conversation? Where they were going to agree to throw this incident down the memory hole and never speak of it again?

Not right this second, though. Right this second, just -

***

Sitting at his desk, hands curled around his coffee mug, Roy read through the opening sentence of a memorandum for the third time - or was it the fourth? Come on, it couldn't be that complicated.

 _Recruitment of voluntary 'pseudo-state' alchemists could potentially be channelled through the creation of a Central University notional reading group or other such academic_ \- he could still feel Ed's mouth hot on his neck, Ed's strength and weight forcing him back against the couch - Roy squeezed his eyes shut. He was an idiot. He was a complete idiot, and he had bigger things to worry about right now than his own peccadilloes. _Recruitment of voluntary 'pseudo-state' alchemists could_ \- goddammit, now what was he going to do about this?

Obviously, they weren't going to make a habit of sleeping together. Although they had done it again this morning. Does twice make it a habit? Three times would make it a habit, that had been Hughes' rule. Oh, hell, Hughes would have just _killed_ him over this. But was that fair? Fullmetal might be a lot younger than him, but was a man now, old enough to have had his heart broken already, old enough to join the army - he'd punched a god in the face, come to think of it. No, now Roy was making excuses for himself.

Right, work. _As a cover story, the creation of a Central University notional reading group or_ \- oh hell, Roy was remembering Ed now as a tiny, potty-mouthed twelve year old. He was remembering laughing with Hawkeye at how Ed had put a spear to the Fuhrer's throat during his State examination, and afterwards had cheeked Roy and tried to threaten him …

It was one thing to casually enjoy Ed's beauty the way Roy had been doing the past couple of years. But to actually go there? Another thing. Another, very bad thing. How old was he, twenty? No, he was still nineteen, wasn't he? Really? That was _awful_. Fourteen years' difference. What was Roy's record prior to this? He was pretty sure it was eleven years, but that had been in the other direction, so he hadn't been the pervert there. He'd also been a couple of years older than Ed at the time. Twenty-one was definitely different to nineteen.

Apparently, Roy had hit the point of his career where he turned into a dirty old man.

But now what? They'd have to talk about it, he supposed. They'd have some excruciating conversation and then, at some point, after a few days or weeks of embarrassment, they'd be able to look one another in the face again. It was all going to be all right. Probably. God, he really had to read this memo. The corner was folded over to indicate that it was to be kept within the office, and even in his current state Roy had noticed the secrecy of the subject matter. He needed to absorb the relevant bits right now, properly, because he'd have to destroy this when he was done.

 _As a cover story …_

"Sir?"

Roy started. On the other side of the desk, Fuery blinked. "Sir, sorry to interrupt your train of thought." Oh, Fuery, from anyone else around here that would have been broadly sarcastic. Fuery dropped his voice an octave: his not entirely subtle secrecy voice. "Your butcher asked if you could return a call? It's about the order you put in."

Well, that was serendipity for you; or possibly just desserts. Izumi Curtis was waiting on his call.

***

Technically, Ed could have stayed at Mustang's all day. He was on research duty, right? But the thought of spending the morning here was just - it didn't feel right, now. He needed to get out, get some air, get back to his own territory and process this weirdness.

As he walked down the sunny streets of the old city, chomping on an almond pastry, Ed felt the post-sex good cheer rise up to dominate his mood. Out here in the bustle of Central, he felt freer. The strangeness of it all was just an anxious little twist below in his stomach. He'd been looking at Mustang - he didn't know how long, really - but it hadn't mattered then. It had been some purely theoretical thing. He never, ever would have done anything. Only he had.

This was the sort of question, he considered, that Winry was good with: what to do when your friends sleep with the wrong person. He remembered how she'd been with Paninya when she'd been dating that jackass, what was he called again? She'd pointed with her beer bottle and said, _okay, here's what you're gonna do_ \- and it had been awesome advice. Totally on the money. It had taken Paninya about two months to stick to it, sure, but Winry had called it, first time.

Of course, asking Winry about this was three hundred per cent out of the question.

He tried to imagine what she'd say if he did. Then, about three seconds later, he curtailed that train of thought. Then he tried again with some parallel universe Winry who'd never dated Ed: what would she say about this? Ed concentrated, but his brain came up with nothing but a raised eyebrow. Maybe a roll of the eyes, _you're an idiot, Ed_ , perhaps an affectionate punch on the arm to let him know she still loved him, but she wasn't getting involved in this train wreck.

Well, that was nice of imaginary Winry, but really not as helpful as Ed had hoped. What about Ling, what would he say about this? Ed sometimes thought how great it would be if instead of being the Emperor of Xing, Ling lived in Central as just a regular guy - not that Ed imagined he'd be particularly great at that. They could go get a beer sometimes, spar, hang out, maybe hook up now and then if Ed was unattached. So, what would Ling say? _Tell me more_ , probably. _When are you sleeping with him again? You should wear the leather pants, your butt looks great in them!_

No, imaginary Ling was a shit source of advice on this stuff; although probably fairly accurate to the real thing. Come to think of it, if Ling really had somehow been around, this would never have happened. Ed would have thought about hooking up with Mustang, then just gone to Ling's place instead of home. And then Ling probably would have guessed what was up and said the leather pants thing. Gah. Shut up, brain Ling.

Ed realised he was keying himself into his apartment already. What had happened to the walk home? Shit, was Al in? He hadn't even come up with a cover story yet.

"Hey, Al?" No answer. "It's me." The flat was silent. This was good. Ed dropped his keys on the telephone table and poked his head around a few doors. Living room and kitchen, empty. Al's room, empty, and the bed was made. He'd probably just gone straight out in the morning, assuming Ed was already at work. It looked like Ed had gotten away with it.

 _Research_ , Ed thought. Right, he should really get to that. He headed to his room, dropped his book bag on the bed, and threw himself after it. His bed felt so good. Mustang's just wasn't as comfortable; you wouldn't think the guy would have a crappy bed.

Ed decided to permit himself a nap. It was good for concentration. Your brain would process this shit while you slept, and you'd wake up able to deal with it all. Good plan.

He kicked his boots off, threw an arm over his head, and within thirty seconds he was under.

He woke up some time later to find that a large tabby cat was chewing on his hair.

***

***

Of course she never called Roy by his rank. It was always, "Hello, Mustang," with a sort of businesslike jollity. Mrs Curtis was not the military's greatest admirer, and she couldn't have been exactly delighted to discover Roy had recruited the Elric brothers again. Yet here she was: trusting Roy, working with him if not for him, even taking risks for his plan. He hoped for the sake of his testicles she didn't somehow guess what he'd been doing with her former student that morning.

"How's business?" he asked.

"Good. The bakery next door is buying a lot of our cold cuts at the moment. They do a good trade in sandwiches during tourist season. You?"

"Overworked, but getting by. All hands on deck with this thing." It would be better when she got here, he nearly said, but Mrs Curtis never seemed to respond well to flattery, even when it was true.

"Right," she said briskly. "I'm calling from a phone box in town, so we're secure. Here's how my trip down south to Roquebrun went. Your lad was right about those alchemical supplies, for a start. But the address they were being sent to was just a box at the village post office. No one had come to pick up any parcels in months, but I found out the name and address it was registered to, fellow called Charles Brady. No one had met him, don't even know if he exists. I called at the cottage where he supposedly lived, and it was empty. It looked set up for lab space to me. And it seems someone from Chrysalis' mob had been there. They left a few guard dogs." Roy's system jolted into alertness. "Showed their faces when I started transmuting the floorboards off to check for supply caches," Mrs Curtis continued.

"The wooden golems, or the spiders?" He remembered the shredded flesh of that alchemist back in the Ducal Palace, and became sharply conscious that he'd just let a woman who was once very kind to him risk something horrible for his cause.

"Around seven feet tall. Five of them. Wood's a terrible choice of material. Were you wanting any remains to poke at?"

"We know enough about their construction, so - no, not really."

"Good, because I blew up the cottage."

"Ah." Fullmetal evidently learnt his discretion at the feet of a master. Although it didn't matter too much at this point; Hakuro knew they were searching anyway.

"Things like that, and the sorts of people who make them …" He heard her sigh explosively into the phone. "Fucking abominable. Safest to destroy the place. There are too many idiots around. Right?"

"Right," said Roy. His own idiocy on several fronts was an uncomfortable pressure behind his eyes.

"By the way, I took a walk over to the Aerugan border a couple of miles south of the village. There's a fence, but it's unguarded. A child could sneak through, so I can't imagine a pack of unprincipled alchemists would have much trouble."

"So someone's considering escape routes in case of defeat, then? Gratifying." Roy wondered if it had been Hakuro or Chrysalis who was thinking about worst case scenarios? Unpleasant a task as it was, Roy needed to work on a few of those himself.

"Hmm," said Mrs Curtis, in a sceptical tone that reminded Roy powerfully of his mother. _Don't get smug, kid._ Roy bit back the urge to get defensive. "How are the boys?"

"Good," said Roy, hoping he didn't sound too elaborately casual. "Working hard." And he'd last seen one of them naked and dozing on his belly in Roy's sunny bed this morning, _spare towels in the bottom drawer of the dresser, Ed, are you even awake?_ Just a snuffle for a reply. Roy had already been late for work by then. He'd fled.

"Well, give them my love and tell them to keep at it."

"Will do," said Roy, trying not to wince.

***

For a couple of moments, Ed assumed he was dreaming. Then he registered that no, there actually was a cat right up in his face, chomping on his bangs. Ed swatted at his hair. The cat shifted, then he felt it curl up around the back of his neck. Ed sat up. The cat rolled onto its back, legs splayed in all directions, apparently completely unconcerned.

He looked the cat in the eye. It had no collar, and it was purring like an engine. Well, this wasn't much of a mystery. To be honest, Ed was surprised it had taken so long for something like this to happen.

Ed put a hand to the white fur of its belly. Some of the width was fluff, but most of it was cat. This thing was doing okay for itself. If Al said he had found it starving, Ed was just going to laugh in his face.

In the living room, Al was sitting on the floor with a book, leaning against the couch with his long legs crossed. He looked up at Ed, who was standing in the doorway with two armfuls of cat. Al looked remarkably innocent considering the shit he'd just pulled.

Ed brandished the cat. "What the hell is this?"

"It's our cat," said Al. He turned a page.

"It's _a_ cat. It was eating my bangs! I have cat drool in my hair."

Al popped a bookmark in his book and set it aside, then held his arms up for the cat. Ed handed him over. The cat lay across Al's lap on its back, belly out and rear end dangling off. Evidently it was making itself right at home.

"Where did you find it?"

"Him," said Al, pointing to the lower end of the cat.

"Oh, great. So he's going to knock up every girl cat within a mile."

"No," said Al, "he's an indoor kitty. And I don't think he's the ladies' man type. Apparently he doesn't even spray that much!"

Ed wrinkled his nose. "Great. Where's the cat from, Al?"

Al took a breath and gave Ed a bright, salesman's grin. "Well, you remember how Teresa from my hermeneutics group got that cat after her aunt died?"

Ed narrowed his eyes.

"Well, Teresa's boyfriend didn't like him. This is the boyfriend who doesn't like me."

"Yeah, well, you slept with her."

"Only twice! And they were broken up at the time, I didn't know they'd get back together after! Anyway, Teresa gave him to Peter, but his roommate says he's allergic, only Peter thinks it's an excuse and he just doesn't like cats, and I agree - so Peter passed him on to his ex-boyfriend Stefan. You haven't met Stefan, but he's kind of a dick. He cheated on Peter for like six weeks with the coatcheck girl at the Orange Grove Ballrooms. Only Stefan didn't pay the cat any attention and then he broke some trendy glass lamp Stefan had, and Stefan told Teresa he was going to take the cat to the _city shelter_."

"So?" Had Ed gotten away with it? Al's ruffled dignity was a good sign - given he wasn't striking back, it seemed he didn't realise Ed had stayed out.

"So, have you seen that place? It's horrible. It's freezing and the cages are tiny and there's pee everywhere and they don't pay a vet for if the kitties need treatment, and then when the place gets full they _cull the ones who've been there longest_."

Ed folded his arms, and started feeling guilty - then emotionally manipulated, then guilty again. How come Al was so good at this shit? He'd have blamed the Hohenheim genes before he'd actually met his father again and realised what a big dork the dude was.

Al scratched the cat under the chin, then moved to tickle its belly. It wriggled luxuriously, then wrapped its front paws around Al's hand and started lazily chewing on one knuckle. Al stared at it goofily. The cat bit down and gave Al's forearm a hefty kick with both back legs.

"He's a biter," said Ed.

"He's playing," said Al. "It's a sign of affection." The cat paused in its attack to let the sucker get a few belly-rubs in, then started chewing on Al's hand again.

"You're gonna need to put some iodine on that sign of affection." Ed shook his head. "But seriously - can we look after a cat right now? All this crazy stuff going on, either of us could get called away any time to chase up another lead on Chrysalis … Have you even thought about this? Or is this like the other twenty times I came back to the hotel to find a cat on my bed?"

"The other twenty times were when I was _thirteen_ , brother. Give me some credit," said Al with great dignity. He looked down at the cat and tickled him under the chin again. "Kitty," he said, in a soft, goofy voice. "Kitty _kittykittykittykitty_." It was somehow not quite as unassailable an argument as his last. Maybe he'd gotten the dork gene after all?

Ed shook his head. "Okay. I'll give this a shot. For now, maybe. But we've got to hash this cat stuff out. Like, how would you hide him from the landlord? And, who's gonna take care of him if we're away? And, if we lock him in for the night, where's he gonna take a crap?"

"We get a tray, Brother. Relax. I've got it all covered, okay?"

"Okay. But the cat's here on a trial basis, right? And we're gonna talk about this properly." Ed rubbed at his face. "Maybe when I've woken up more and gotten some coffee."

"Fine. By the way," said Al mildly, "you stayed over on the brigadier general's couch last night, right?"

Ed's jaw hung open. A jolt of shock went all the way through him. Shit, Al _had_ spotted he didn't come back last night. Wait, what would Ed normally say? What would he say if he hadn't done anything? Al might not have his number yet, he could still get out of this. His mouth worked.

"Aw," said Al, "you're blushing. Cute, Brother. So, did you guys bond some more?"

This was where Ed had a snappy comeback. Al was giving him shit, and it didn't mean anything, and he should just make a crack back, and then they'd move on and it'd be gone. _Fuck, think of something, think of something._

After a couple of painful seconds, he managed, "Shut up."

Al craned his head around to look at Ed. Now Al opened his own mouth. His eyes got very wide. Apparently, the teasing really hadn't meant anything.

So, Ed had to meet his fate now. He sat down heavily on the sofa and leaned his head in one hand.

Al blinked. Then he said, in a calm, neutral tone of voice, "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Ed flopped down onto his stomach and shoved his face into a sofa cushion. Then he shook his head.

"Seriously?" Al's voice rose about an octave.

Ed turned his head to one side. "Stop making this worse."

"You _slept together_?"

Ed just groaned.

"No, did you? You didn't."

"Shit, stop dragging this out. _Yes_ , okay."

There was a short but solid pause.

"Okay," said Al quietly.

"It's not like I went over there planning it," muttered Ed. "It - just kind of happened. Accidentally."

"It _just happened_? How do you do that accidentally, you trip and fall on him?"

Face still in the cushion, trying to keep it as vague as possible, Ed told him.

After the first few seconds of mumbling, the cat helped itself to a seat between his shoulder blades, and it only weighed about a fucking ton.

***

Breda was sure to use a different car from the military pool, every time. He'd make a couple of rounds of the loop of boulevards circling the centre of town, and then head in to wherever that evening's rendezvous was taking place. Skullduggery and plotting, in Breda's experience, was usually not so much like the good parts of a spy novel. This was definitely the closest he'd come to pulp hero glamour so far.

He pulled up outside tonight's little café, and within a minute a slim figure was slipping outside, pulling open the passenger door and taking a seat next to him. The huge book bag was perhaps not quite what you'd expect from the girl in the spy novel, but for Breda it was the icing on the cupcake.

He gave his passenger a quick grin, then pulled out and wound the car through the darkening side streets for a minute or two, just to be sure. Then he parked, and turned to look at his passenger in the low evening light.

It was a warm night; Sciezka bit her lower lip a little and looked around. "We're alone?"

Breda nodded. "How's life in the underground?"

She sighed. "Getting by. I'm still a little bit worried about Major Armstrong. Waiting's hard for him, I think." Soon after the Promised Day, Hakuro had filled the upper ranks of Investigations with old guard loyalists, making them a resource Brigadier General Mustang couldn't use. Unfortunately for Major Armstrong, this had meant that his task was to stay where he was and keep his ears open.

"Tell him the Chief said he believes in him. Just a little longer now."

Sciezka looked out the window for a moment, her small fingers playing with the handle of her bag. "He hasn't been the same since he lost his sister. I think - well, these two years would have been hard for him anyway, but - it's easier for someone like me to keep my head down. Observing things is what I'm good at. The major's a man of action."

Breda shuffled uncomfortably. He knew the Chief felt crappy about this part, and to be honest, he did too. Major Armstrong could only do what he did for them because his bosses thought of him as a broken man. They liked him where they could keep an eye on him, but they didn't think of him as a threat. Breda hoped one day soon the major was going to get his chance to prove them all wrong on that one.

He ran a hand through his hair and gave Sciezka a sympathetic grin. "You guys have the worst of it over in Investigations. You drew the sh- the cruddy job. Waiting sucks, I remember from before the coup." Stuck out in the West, a pointless assignment in an office worth of jobsworth Bradley loyalists, his best friend stuck in hospital with his spine cracked in two, his comrades scattered and his leader isolated. The messages from Central were rare and welcome; he'd memorised them all, and repeated them to himself while he grit his teeth and walked himself through another day. The call to action had been such a fucking relief.

Sciezka shrugged and smiled. She always played it down. "No," she said, waving her hands. "No, no, it's fine. I feel so much better knowing I'm helping."

"Bosses still think you're golden?"

She frowned and looked inward for a moment, then nodded emphatically. "Oh yes, nothing's changed at all. Major Fokker pretty much lets me do what I like as long as I get my work done. I never thought it would be an advantage, being so scatty. I don't think anyone imagines I'm the sort of person who'd do something like this at all. And of course when people talk about politics, I just act like I don't even know what they're talking about." She gave him another little smile. "It's sort of sad that people think I've got my nose so far in my books I don't even notice what's happening to the country. But I guess I can't complain when it's helpful, can I?" She ducked her head, rummaged in her book bag, and came out with a fat pile of typescripts held together with a bulldog clip.

"You've gotta be a fast typist," said Breda, taking the documents. "Me, I just" - he mimed smashing typewriter keys with his two index fingers, and pulled a goofy grin. Sciezka laughed.

"Most of it's just copies of what I've seen this week of the department's work. General Hakuro's really started leaning on us, Investigations have been making a lot of checks for him on officer's loyalties, you'll see in the documents. And below that, I copied out an early monograph of Dr. Katzenklavier's, I remember it from the archives in the First Branch. It was a small print run, so I thought I'd just copy it on the off-chance that you guys haven't seen it before? And there are some more extracts from the State Alchemists' records, too." She said it all in one long rush. It was only when she finished that she seemed to remember that she needed to breathe.

Breda looked at her. When Major Armstrong had asked her for her help with this thing, apparently she hadn't even blinked before saying yes. She hadn't been part of the coup, hadn't much previous connection with them at all. Was it because Brigadier General Hughes had given her a job and a chance, and she'd liked him? Or her political convictions, which Breda was starting to grasp seemed to run pretty deep. He was getting the impression she didn't separate the two, the private agenda and the public. It was that last one that made him wonder how Team Mustang hadn't gotten her on board sooner. She thought like one of them.

Maybe that was what had made him take a second look? Or, being totally honest, it could have been the legs. Breda was a sucker for a nice pair of pins.

"So," said Breda. "Where can I take you next this evening?"

Sciezka put a hand into her book bag and placed something onto the dashboard with a decisive metallic click.

It was a hotel room key.

"As you wish," said Breda, trying valiantly to limit the breadth of his grin.

***

Al hadn't said much - that had probably been the worst part. He seemed reassured that it wasn't going to happen again, but he hadn't bought Ed's other idea, which was that he and Mustang would both go into the office tomorrow morning and nod at each other in a sort of manly, shared-understanding way, and then both start work on forgetting it ever happened.

"You should talk to him," Al had said, still sounding a little stunned. "You're supposed to be delivering your findings, he's going to think you freaked when you don't meet him this evening. Just go over there and be an adult about it, okay?"

The annoying thing was, Al was right. Mustang was a worrier, Ed knew that much by now. If Ed didn't say something now, he'd probably just over-think the whole thing in his plotting, stresshead, Mustang-y way, and blow it up into a far bigger thing than it was. Because it wasn't anything. They were both under a lot of pressure and it had got to them, that was all. Or at least, this was Ed's current theory. He'd been through a bunch of them over the last twelve hours.

Ed decided to walk to Mustang's place, to give himself a chance to work out what the hell he was going to say. The walk between their apartments generally took about an hour. This time, though, it worked out as more like three. Ed was hungry, so he stopped and got a plate of noodles and meat sauce at a cafe. Then he stopped in a bookstore that was open late, and ended up browsing too long. Then he wandered over to the canal. He still didn't have any ideas.

It didn't help that, by this point in the evening, he found he now actually didn't know what the hell he wanted to do. The same part of him that had wanted to stay after dinner last night whispered to him now, _why not_? An actual relationship was, of course, out of the picture - a _relationship_ with _Mustang_ \- they'd kill each other. Besides, Ed had established that he sucked at relationships, and he wouldn't want that with anyone right now. But that feeling, in a weird way, was why a non-relationship was kind of tempting. When he'd done that with Ling it had worked out okay, hadn't it? That winter before the Promised Day, the horrible weight of the future had pressed on both of them and they'd got each other through it, fooling around and laughing and pushing each other onward. When he looked back on it now he didn't regret it at all: he felt okay about it, and okay that it had ended, and happy that Ling had got to his goals in the end.

Still, sleeping with Mustang. Regularly. When he actually thought that phrase, it just sounded like the kind of great idea that would blow up in his face. Just like he had a history with being bad with relationships, and with fooling around with his friends, Ed had a history with having great ideas that really, really blew up in his face.

So no, Ed's first instinct was probably right after all. This whole thing was too bizarre, they needed to just close the book on it and forget it. He just had to find a way to have a conversation about it long enough to lay it to rest.

He didn't get much further than that, thought-wise. He got a coffee and drank it looking at the passers by on Unification Square, and then he thought about getting a beer, and then he thought, _fuck it, just go over there right now, I'll wing it_.

The lights were on in Mustang's flat. He let himself into the building, but when he got to Mustang's apartment door itself, he knocked.

As he heard footsteps approach the door, his stomach pinged all the way up to his throat and back. The catch was fumbled, and there was Mustang in his shirtsleeves. He looked tired, but then it was nearly ten by now. Now that Ed thought about it, maybe it was kind of rude of him to show up so late?

"Hello," said Mustang. He didn't seem very surprised.

"Hey," said Ed. His stomach shot up and down again without asking. "Uh, is this okay? Were you working?"

Mustang shrugged and smiled. "Yes, but I was about to finish for the night anyway." Crap. Maybe Ed had read this whole thing wrong? Maybe he should have just forgot the whole thing and not come over? Then Mustang seemed to notice Ed's rapid calculations, and smiled at him, sort of apologetically. He said, "It's fine. Good, in fact. Come in?"

Ed walked in and shut the front door behind him.

For a moment, they looked at each other in silence.

"So," said Ed, "I guess we should -"

His back hit the door. Mustang's hands were on his shoulders, and Ed had a fistful of Mustang's shirt, and when had that even happened? He pulled Mustang forward, hard. Mustang tugged against it just a little, and grinned his head off as Ed pulled him down. Then they were kissing, deep and forceful and frantic. Hands in each other's hair, hands everywhere.

Then they were stumbling towards the bedroom.


	5. Inbetween Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are negotiations of terms and names, and ritual consumption of pizza.

This was getting absolutely ridiculous.

Roy was sprawled half-sitting on the edge of his own bed, shoulders slumped against the headboard, still drifting down from the rush of orgasm. Ed lay next to him, upper body curled into his lap with his cheek on Roy's thigh and his breath warm and tickling over Roy's cock. Roy's left hand rested loosely over Ed's hip in a sticky mess. They'd managed to get mostly naked this time. Roy was wearing an open shirt and nothing else; Ed had his left boot still on and his pants tangled around his ankle. _Fucking ridiculous._

Roy was still too submerged in the post-sex daze to care too much about _ridiculous_ , though.

Without opening his eyes, Ed spoke into Roy's crotch. "So, as I was saying when I got in the door." He turned in Roy's lap to look up at him, and rolled his legs up onto the bed. His hair tickled Roy's thighs. "What the hell is up with us?"

Roy sighed. "Sex?" It was the first proper sentence they'd exchanged since Ed had knocked.

"Well, yeah." Ed licked his lips absently and swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Roy felt deeply distracted. "But, I mean, it's us. I mean, all of a sudden …" Ed never finished. He just shrugged.

Roy groaned, reached for the handkerchief on his nightstand, and started to wipe his hand off. "We really need to talk about this somewhere that doesn't have a bed."

"Or I guess also a couch?" The corner of Ed's mouth went up. "You want to get dressed and grab a drink?"

Roy shook his head. "I'm exhausted. I don't think I can move from this bed." He put down the handkerchief, and absently rubbed at his temple. He didn't like this part at all: when good sex dissolves into the mess you've created with it, and you both feel it. "I meant tomorrow. Would you like to get some lunch?"

"Yeah." Ed's mouth pulled down at the corners. "Somewhere public. Well, maybe not totally public, but … yeah. Good plan."

Roy shucked his shirt to the floor and shifted, and Ed lifted his head to let him up. When Roy got back from washing up in the bathroom, Ed was now sprawled half on and half off the bed staring vaguely at the ceiling, trousers hanging from one booted ankle.

Roy flopped onto the bed next to him and ruffled his hair. "I need to go to sleep. Stay if you like."

"Nah," muttered Ed, "I should get going."

He didn't move. Roy let out a tired breath.

A few minutes later, Roy jolted awake, then realised he had, therefore, just been asleep. Ed was snuffling gently next to him, out for the count. He was still wearing the single boot. Roy looked at Ed for a moment, and then decided he was just too tired for any more discussions about staying and going. He got up, walked around to Ed's side of the bed, and crouched to untie the boot and pull it off Ed's automail foot. He wasn't gentle about it, or about pulling the trousers off Ed's booted ankle, but Ed didn't seem to wake. As Roy lifted his leg onto the bed, the toes twitched and flexed a little. Ed always seemed to sleep with such dedication and commitment. Roy got back into bed on his own side and pulled the sheet over both of them. Despite the heat of the night, he found himself shifting towards Ed's body until it was a warm and pleasant line against his skin. _You're an idiot_ , he told himself firmly. Actually, he thought, he had all the ingredients in place for a really good bout of post-coital self-reproach. He should get on that.

He was fast asleep within five minutes. When the alarm clock woke him the next morning, Ed wasn't there.

***

"How can one cat take up so much sofa?" Ed called as he wrestled with the stiff buttonholes of his uniform jacket.

Al bounced in from the kitchen, halfway into a bowl of oatmeal and, as usual, far too chipper for the time of morning. "It's great, isn't it? He's so relaxed here already!"

Ed tickled the cat under the chin. "He catch any mice yet?"

"Give him a chance. He's getting his bearings." Al perched on the sofa arm and leaned down to fuss with the cat's ruff. "Zozimos," he cooed absently.

" _Zozimos_?"

"I named him," said Al. "You were so agnostic about the whole cat thing, I thought you wouldn't mind."

Ed pulled a face. "If you have to name the cat after a dead Xerxean - which you don't, I would have made a rule about that if you asked - why _Zozimos_ of all people?

"He was a great alchemist, and the name's fun to say. _Zoz_ ee-mos," Al crooned again. "Why not Zozimos?"

"All that noodly mystical dream-vision crap in his book."

"Which I like."

"Well, you have occasionally dubious taste. Look, I'm giving this cat room and board, I should get a vote on the name. We should call him something like, like." Ed looked at the cat, rubbing its cheek against Al's fingers. It rolled onto its back in a graceful liquid motion, then sprawled over the cushions without dignity or restraint. "Look at this cat! This cat needs motivating, it needs cat bootcamp or something. We should call it like, Panther or Sabretooth. Remember your ancestry, cat!" The cat refused to make eye contact: it just purred comfortably and swooshed its tail around a bit. "You come from a long line of fearsome predators. Oh. Hey! Predator!" That was brilliant. "We're calling him Predator."

Al folded his arms. Well, obviously he was going to have some resistance to this, he was Al: mostly awesome yet with a strange, prissy streak, which obviously came from some dubious Hohenheim gene Ed had lucked out of. After a moment, Al took a deep breath, and then just said, "No."

"No? Not Predator? But we got him so he could catch mice! It's like, his job description."

"He needs a name, not a job title. Just, no." Al shook his head. He turned back to his oatmeal and polished the rest off while Ed got his uniform jacket fixed. The cat stood in Ed's lap and attempted to shed all over it.

When he finished, Al put his bowl down on the table. "By the way," he said, "how'd that talk work out for you?"

Ed groaned. He should have known Al wouldn't let him off the hook about this. "I'm meeting Mustang for lunch, okay? Somewhere public," he added, from Al's look. "But private. But public." Al tilted his head, keeping his poker face. Ed tutted. "Look, we'll hash it out, okay?"

Al waved his hands nervously. "Okay. Fine. Cool. By the way, you missed some big news last night. Winry called."

Ed jolted. "You didn't tell her. Right. _Right_?"

Al rolled his eyes. "No, why would I? I mean, it's just a random, never to be repeated mistake that you keep repeating. No, she called to tell me she took Warrant Officer Brosch on as a client."

" _What_?"

"I know! He's booked in for a fitting in a couple of weeks and everything."

"She doesn't need to do that! I told her she didn't need to -"

"I know!"

"You said you were gonna talk her out of it!"

"I know!" Al threw his arms in the air. "I told her she didn't have to -"

"Bet she didn't listen -"

"She's making herself a target! Automail's a military resource!"

"She's gonna be on Hakuro's shit list! This sucks!"

"I told her she'd probably have to leave the country if Hakuro got control, they'd come after her -"

"She could end up in prison!"

"And do you know what she said to me?"

Ed paused and took a shaky breath, one hand scrunched in his hair. Winry: his wonderful, maddening ex-girlfriend, and the closest thing he had to a sister (and he really tried not to think of those last two at the same time). Fuck.

"She says they have military clients all the time, and it was going to happen sometime anyway." Al looked down for a moment, and scratched the cat's ears. "She says if one day she's going to get a client from Hakuro's faction or ours, and she's going to have to show where she stands, then why not now, on her terms?"

Well, that was just - actually, that made a hell of a lot of sense. Goddammit.

"She says," Al exhaled and then took a deep breath in, "that it's what her mom and dad would have done."

"That's … " Ed groaned and shook his head.

"Annoying? True?"

"Both? I mean, her parents were awesome people, and she's right to admire them, and they did the right thing, and they -"

" - ended up really dead?"

Ed groaned, and dropped his hand from his head - and swore as he nearly yanked a chunk of hair out. It was the right hand. His bangs were caught in his index finger joint.

Al chuckled ruefully and shook his head. _Goddammit_ , Ed thought again. Al came over and started picking the hair out of the joint to free Ed's finger.

Ed really knew how to start the day right, he had to give himself that.

***

Ed tried to tell himself that it would just look like normal, him and Mustang having lunch together. But _normal_ , though? Three fucks into this incredible stupidity, he was starting to think it wasn't just a fluke. For how long had they both been slowly walking into this situation?

He looked at Mustang as they walked through the trees. He looked at his beautiful eyes and thin mouth - and tried with some energy to think himself back to the Ed of five years ago, who'd stared at that face and thought it was begging to be punched. _Colonel Shit_ , he reminded himself. _Smug bastard, I see you still haven't found the Stone, Fullmetal, don't die in my jurisdiction because I don't want to do the paperwork_.

It didn't work. He just felt even further from his younger, kid self: his dumbass snap judgements and tunnel-vision, how little he'd known about the world and the people around him.

"So," said Mustang, still walking, "this."

"Yeah," said Ed, risking a sidelong glance, "This. What the hell is it again?"

Mustang frowned, and pushed his lower lip around for a moment. Ed wanted to bite on that lip. He pressed his mouth together instead. Mustang said, "Well. We're both under a lot of pressure. And."

"So it could have been anyone?" Ed wasn't sure why he'd said that. It sounded annoyed. He wasn't annoyed.

Mustang gave a theatrical sigh. "I find" - he paused, and puffed out an irritable sigh - "I find you very attractive. I mean, you _are_ very attractive." He was staring fixedly at the path ahead of them.

"Me too," said Ed, following Mustang's gaze to whatever he was looking at on the path. "Ditto."

"But I'm not up for a relationship right now, I can't be," Mustang said. "With everything … Besides which, you're far too young."

 _Patronising ass._ Ed felt a hot little rush of anger. "How am I old enough to be your - to talk about stuff and hang out and - I'm not old enough to fuck?"

Mustang turned to him and made an exasperated noise. "I mean that you're too young _for me_. You're nineteen and I'm nearly thirty-three. Fourteen years' difference, Ed. Fourteen! I feel like an aging pervert."

"I don't care," said Ed, lifting his shoulders. Mustang sighed heavily. "You look - it's not like you're eighty - I mean, you know - you have this huge ego, you know you look great."

Mustang raised his eyebrows into his bangs, still looking ahead of them. "Not my point."

Ed shoved his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants. Okay, fine. He got it. But there was something - how Winry's friends were all twenty-five, Al's friends were all twenty-five. How when they went back to Resembool they would all end up in Granny Pinako's kitchen, commiserating about how they just couldn't get along with the people they'd gone to school with anymore. Ed would pout, Al would say he felt like he had two heads, Winry would wave her coffee and rant magnificently about what ignorant asses their old school friends were these days. None of them could get along with most people their own age. _Well, no_ , Ed corrected himself. Ed's best friend was actually his own age. He was also Emperor of Xing.

It would sound stupid if he said all that, though. So he didn't.

Ed sighed. "I don't know why I'm even arguing about this. I'm not saying we should keep doing it or anything, I don't want to be with anyone right now. I suck at relationships. I've got bigger things to take care of right now, and once I've done that, I need to get my act together, and maybe then I'd be with someone. Or not. I don't know."

"If we don't want to keep doing this, we should stop seeing each other outside of work."

"What about the library?"

"You'll have to use it when I'm not there," Mustang said. "We can meet at my mother's bar instead -" He groaned and slapped a hand to his face. "Scratch that, can't believe I said that. I'm thirty-three, I'll just have to exert some fucking self-control --"

Ed's discomfort, very suddenly, boiled over into anger. Before he even thought it, he'd grabbed Mustang's shoulder, pushed him to face him - _at least look me in the eye,_ he wanted to say - and then he felt the pull of it, thought _fuck it all_ , grabbed Mustang by the ears and kissed him.

When they broke apart a couple of minutes later, Ed felt like he'd made his point. He hadn't exactly known what his point _was_ in advance, but hey. Buoyed by his success so far at thinking on his feet, he cleared his throat. "I think," he said, " that the most practical way for us stop accidentally having sex is to start deliberately having sex."

Mustang's mouth was still open. He slowly blinked, then closed it, then said, very articulately, "Ah."

"Think about it!" Ed went on, feeling inspired. "This is the path of least resistance! I mean, we have to see a lot of each other, we keep ending up in bed. If we decide not to sleep with each other that's going to take a lot of energy and commitment, right?"

"Right," Mustang said. His eyebrows had disappeared into his bangs, but he was nodding.

"And, we have way bigger things to worry about at the moment than this stuff, right? So. If we hash out some kind of - thing, right, then we can just do it and not think about it and - and I had a thing before, like this, you know, a -"

"Friends with benefits?"

"Yes! Exactly, and it all worked out okay, and it was fine, and - uh, it helped." Ed felt the rush of confidence dissipating. "Fuck, just tell me if you think it's stupid."

"There would be ground rules," said Mustang, slowly. "And we'd both have to be very clear on them." He eyeballed Ed.

"Ground rules are good. No strings, right?"

"If it's getting in the way of either of work for either of us, we have to end it. And no pressure. If you meet someone, and you want to call it off -"

"Or if you do," added Ed.

Mustang laughed. "I doubt it."

"You don't get to pull rank when we're together, right?"

"And you don't get to pull strings with your commanding officer because we're sleeping together."

"And you - ugh, I can't think of any more." Ed wrinkled his nose. "I hate talking about this stuff."

Mustang barked a laugh. "Me too. Let's pick up some sandwiches. What are you doing this evening?"

"Nothing. You want to hang out?"

"Yes," said Mustang, with some intent. He gave Ed a look. Ed swallowed reflexively and twitched a grin. "Come over to mine. Let's give this thing a test drive."

***

"At least I'm maintaining my place in the league table," said Rebecca, stripping down her rifle and placing it back in its locker.

"You keep telling yourself that," said Jean from behind her. Rebecca shut her locker and shifted over to let him get to his own, just below hers. He winked as he passed. "Hawkeye," he called, "your days at the top are numbered."

"I remain quietly confident," said Riza.

"And apparently I've got my work cut out for me," said Miles, raising an eyebrow.

"The competition will be good for you," said Riza. "You've been under-practising since Briggs, it's much easier to get enough time at the range if you stay motivated."

"We do handgun practice first thing Tuesday a.m.," offered Jean. "You should come along to that too."

Rebecca scratched his hairline. She still thought Riza had been pretty damn cheeky, asking to bring Miles along to their weekly rifle practice instead of starting with the handguns. Rebecca thought Riza would have picked up that Jean wasn't necessarily going to be cool with Miles getting to see him transfer from the chair to the floor and back: she was good with this stuff normally. Sure, he made it look easy, and sure, he didn't like to let on when he was self-conscious - but still. Luckily, after Rebecca had a quick word with Jean, it had worked out okay. Miles had apparently made it onto Jean's trusted shortlist. It seemed they'd had some kind of dude bonding that Rebecca had somehow missed.

"And now," Rebecca said, "comes the ritual consumption of the pizza."

"Ah," said Miles. "I was hoping we could hop back up to the office. I wanted to talk over a couple of things that we probably shouldn't be airing in Adrienne's Pizzeria."

"It won't fly, Duncan," said Riza. "After rifle practice, nothing comes between Rebecca and her supper."

 _Duncan_. Rebecca and Jean shared a look. It was still somehow weird to hear Miles called by his first name. Rebecca had heard it so rarely before, she could almost have believed Miles hadn't even had one - and then her brain supplied her with the image of Riza _giving_ Miles a first name, which was ludicrous and yet so very Riza. She tried to stifle the giggling somewhat.

"Why don't we order in pizza?" Riza tried, giving her the look.

Classic Riza. Well, she was right - Rebecca wasn't going to give this one up. "C'mon. We spend enough evenings in the office ordering in food. We actually get to leave and hang out together tonight, how often does that happen? Can't we go out for food? We could head back to ours later and have the politics talk."

"Hey," said Jean, "I know where we can go out for food _and_ have the politics talk."

***

The front room of Bar Christmas still smelled like fresh paint. "Hey," said Rebecca, once she was released from Madam Christmas's formidable hug, "the new tables got delivered!"

"What do you think, honey?"

"Great! Modern, but not too trendy. They're working really nice with the green paint and the dark woodwork. Don't you guys think so?"

Madam Christmas and Rebecca turned to the rest of them. Miles, Riza and Jean looked up from their table with the expressions of people with absolutely nothing to say about interior decor.

"Anyway," Christmas said, "let's get you set up with drinks, and our chef can make you guinea pigs for the new menu."

It took one and a half drinks for them to get from guns to sports teams to office gossip to politics. By this time, the food had arrived, and the bowls of fries on the centre of the table were dwindling fast.

"Look," Rebecca said, gesturing with her wine glass, "all Jean's saying is that getting enough support that Mustang can take power is enough to keep us busy on its own - but it's all meaningless if we don't get there in time, before this alchemy monster super-weapon or whatever is ready. It's frustrating, is all."

"We've got a good base of support in industry," Miles said. Jean tapped two fingers to the side of his head and grinned. Miles smiled back. "What we need to worry about is the brass."

"True," Riza chipped in, "at least somewhat. The brass is divided, but not everyone's choosing a side. The floaters are looking at the civilian vote. They have no idea what either faction is up to: they're more worried about a popular uprising. So really, it goes back to civilian politics and that whole can of worms from the Flowers case."

Rebecca took a swig of wine, and felt that mess of unpleasant feeling that Katie Flowers stirred in her these days. Jean touched her elbow, and she leaned towards his shoulder a little. "I wish I knew what civilians were thinking," she said. "I mean, my family are pretty much pro-Mustang, but I think it's more that if it's my boss's job to fix the country, they get to yell at me about it over dinner."

"My family like to shout at each other over this sort of thing," said Miles. "My grandmother Vasilova thinks all reformers are maniacs - but then she also thinks that the milkman is trying to poison her cat." He shrugged.

Jean shrugged himself. "Business mostly likes Mustang, at any rate." Then he looked up and quirked an eyebrow.

Rebecca turned and followed his gaze. Madam Christmas was leaning on the bar with three girls on bar stools sitting next to her in a row, all staring at their table with rapt attention.

"It's sad how we have to eavesdrop for this stuff rather than get it from Roy," said Vanessa.

"He can make time for his family! He needs to eat sometime, he should follow your example and come here," said Madeline.

"We only get to see him when he wants us to get him information," said Bao-Yu. "It's a pretty sad state of affairs."

Madam Christmas herself just took a pull on her cigarette and nodded.

The Christmas girls were a nice bunch, but sometimes when they all stared you down at once, it was like looking at a bunch of little copies of their mama bear. Rebecca could bet that Mustang had it even worse than her at family gatherings.

"So, you guys want some info on the public mood from actual civilians?" asked Bao-Yu.

"Please," said Riza. She always seemed to take the Christmas cheek in stride. Rebecca guessed it was length of exposure, that or the famous Riza Hawkeye poker face.

"I'm afraid Roy is not a popular guy in the universities," Bao-Yu said. "Now the government isn't imprisoning people for speaking out of turn, or censoring worth a damn, everyone's started saying what they really think. At East U - I'm in the History Master's programme there, guys - people are getting really vocal about the disgusting stuff the military's pulled. The more we dig into it, the more there is. You can't blame people for being suspicious of how different another army guy's really going to be. You've got to admit that becoming a military dictator in order to institute democratic reform is going to get people suspic-"

"Yeah, yeah," said Madeline. "If you got out of your ivory tower, you'd get that Roy's got a lot of support among ordinary people. He's got charisma - no, he has! And university professors might not like his war record, but it plays well with the public. Our real problem is that a lot of people are scared and confused. The pro-democracy guys are fighting each other, the military are fighting each other. The democratic movement doesn't _have_ a strong leader other than Roy. If he can cut a deal with parliament, then he's got it. Hakuro's best chance of popularity is if everyone who wants change wastes their energy bitch-slapping each other. And you know what? I called Roy to say this the other night, he fell asleep on the phone!"

"Only because you called him at ten-thirty at night!" said Vanessa. "Ten's the cut-off, even with family."

"The phone cut-off rule doesn't apply to family," said Rebecca. "Or at least not mine." She somehow imagined it didn't apply to Mustang's either. Sometimes, despite her better judgment, she felt for the guy.

***

The couch sagged a little further as a substantial weight of cat bounced onto it. Al looked up from his notebook and his jar of chocolate-hazelnut spread. Zozimos made a high and pitiful meow. "You wouldn't like this," said Al. "It's full of sugar. Besides, you had your actual dinner half an hour ago."

Zozimos meowed again, sadly. He sniffed the jar of chocolate paste, and Al moved it out of his way. He gave Al a resentful look, then butted up his head against Al's book, gently and then more violently. Al scratched his ears. "Zozimos," he said, "I think you have an emotional relationship with food. I think you're comfort-eating because you want attention. Do you want to play?" He waggled a finger in imitation of a mouse. Zozimos looked at him blankly, then climbed onto his lap, knocked the book out of the way and sprawled.

Al sighed and retrieved the notebook, put the jar of spread on the wooden chair they used as an end table, then got his pencil from behind his ear. He set it to the paper and doodled idly, thinking back to the delicate, ominous spirals of the array he was trying to fathom.

The doorbell rang. Al groaned, put his notes aside and trotted down the stairs to get the front door, wondering vaguely if they'd been expecting a parcel.

"Hello," said Izumi Curtis, thrusting her suitcase into his hands already.

"Hello!" said Al, his voice rising about an octave. "I didn't realise you were coming so soon! Ed's out, I mean, it's work stuff, alchemy work stuff. It's just me and the cat that you haven't met, we've got a cat now." He looked behind him frantically. "Come say hi, cat!"

"If Ed's out," Teacher said, a familiar warning tone at the edges of her voice, "then this will be a good chance for us to catch up. I haven't seen you since you joined the army." She strode straight past him, up the stairs and into the flat itself - right into the living room he hadn't had time to clean up, with papers all over the floor and Ed's uniform jacket hanging off the coffee table and worse still, crumbs on the rug.

"Okay!" said Al, trying desperately to slow himself down. He was an adult! She wasn't officially his teacher any more, she was an equal, a colleague, someone with no call to be kicking his ass for taking up with another teacher and selling his soul to the military and not cleaning his own living room and having a silver watch in his pocket _right now_ -

"First things first," said Teacher. She jerked her head at the living room window. "See those two men across the street? They tailed me all the way from the station. And they're far too good at it to just be idiot muggers."


	6. Go the Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miles and Ed both make unpopular moves, and Ed responds typically to sealed orders.

Carefully, Al glanced out the window. The two men were still there. They stood right outside the bookstore across the street, seemingly deep in conversation.

"They followed you all the way from the station?" he asked.

Teacher just nodded and eyed him.

Al didn't like this, not at all. Surely Hakuro couldn't be employing another criminal gang? Would he risk that after what had happened with the Luttenbergers? What was this? He'd have to find out, then. "Right," he said, taking a breath.

Teacher raised an eyebrow at him. "Right. Let's see what you can do."

A distance transmutation from here? Could Al even manage that? He frowned, then corrected himself. Sure, he could. It was just there was just something about having Teacher _right there_ watching him do it.

He took a breath, then stepped over to the window, as casually as he could. It was a few inches open. That was good. He kept himself turned to the side, eyeing the men across the street but not looking directly out the window. Then he tapped his fingers together and pressed them to the wall.

The two men didn't notice the little ribbon of light until it was halfway across the road towards them, snaking across the pavement. Then they ran. Al briefly kicked himself that he hadn't managed to channel the energy right under the road - he was still such a beginner with this sometimes - but he didn't break his focus. He adjusted his aim and felt his intent flow down into the ground, right through to the circle that surrounded the two men even as they sprinted for the nearest cross-street, then sprouted concrete hands that rose up to capture them. Al frowned as he did it: it was so tough to tell from this distance how tight to make the grip. He still remembered that time, back when he was thirteen, that Ed had accidentally broken a street thief's arm that way.

A moment after Al had dropped his hand from the wall, he saw Teacher sprinting across the road.

He turned on his heel and ran for the apartment door. She'd left it wide open, and the cat was already outside, tentatively sniffing the top step. _Crap. How did he move so fast sometimes?_ Al bundled Zozimos back into the flat, shut the door, and ran to join Teacher.

When he reached her, she had one of the two men by the ear. "I'll ask you again, what's the game here?" She pinched, hard. The man yelped. Al repressed a grin.

 _No. Wait. Hang on._ Al's stomach clenched.

He knew these men.

Al looked at the guy whose ear Teacher was harassing. "Sergeant Ramsey? It is, right?"

The man glowered. "Yes, sir."

Teacher turned to him, with a look in her eye that presaged very bad things. " _Mustang had me tailed?_ "

Al threw his hands up. "No, no! These guys work directly under General Hakuro."

"Ah. Dirty tricks, is it?" Teacher cracked her knuckles with determined pleasure.

"Well, yeah." Al squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. This wasn't going to be fun. He turned back to the two bound soldiers - then clapped and put his hands to the concrete bonds. They stared at him blankly as the hands wound their way back into the sidewalk.

"Go on, get out of here!" He shooed them with his hands. They were sprinting away before he got the sentence finished.

Teacher watched them go, then turned to him. "I hope you had a good reason for doing that," she said evenly.

Al put his fingertips to the side of his head, sighed deeply, then nodded back at his building.

Once they'd ignored the small crowd of rubberneckers, crossed the street and headed back up to the flat, Al took a breath and offered his good reason. "If Hakuro's not even trying to hide this stuff now ..." He trailed off. "This is bad."

"But you can't arrest them because it'd escalate matters even more?"

Al nodded. "We're not ready to move yet. And we can't do anything that Hakuro's guys could spin to turn the tide against us. The brigadier general and Major Hawkeye keep lecturing everyone …" He sighed heavily and flopped down on the sofa.

Teacher gave him a wry, unexpectedly sympathetic smile. "I've walked into a real mess, haven't I?" Zozimos rubbed against her ankles. Animals always seemed to get along with her. She looked down. Then she looked back up at Al. "What the _hell_ are you feeding that cat?"

***

Roy set the telephone receiver back in its cradle and dropped the takeout menu into the drawer on the hall table. He exhaled slowly, riding his good mood and trying to continue not to think about work: good sex, beef bulgogi on its way, and later in the evening, a good chance of a second round of both. Roy wouldn't object to more evenings like this.

As Roy passed the open door, he saw that Ed was standing in the library, naked apart from his boxers, his eyes fixed on the glass door of one of the bookcases. For a moment, Roy just raked his eyes over him unthinkingly, taking in his muscular back, the thick, honey-coloured hair hanging loose down it, the tight curves of his ass. Then he realised what Ed was looking at.

Ed's eyes met his through the glass of the bookcase, and Roy could already see exactly what annoying conversation they were about to have.

"Takeout's going to be twenty minutes," Roy said, in a pathetic attempt to distract him. "Hungry?"

Ed jerked a thumb at the alchemical lock, at the clear traces of grease pencil Roy hadn't fully wiped off. "So," he said, "you draw out the array even when no one's looking?"

"So? I like the feeling of it. Don't people sometimes write down their arithmetic workings when they could just work it out in their head?" Roy realised he'd folded his arms defensively. He sighed. "I should have realised you knew."

Ed turned from the bookcase to look at him directly, and rolled his eyes. "I _saw_ you transmute with no array. On the Promised Day, yeah? You were throwing up walls all over the place."

"Oh. I didn't realise you were close enough." Ed snorted. "Give me a break, I couldn't _see_ at the time."

"Look," said Ed. Something had shifted in his tone of voice. He looked at Roy carefully. Roy nodded for him to continue. This conversation couldn't be called off now, but damn, Roy really wished that they hadn't started it. "You pay the passage fee, you get the trip. Even if I hadn't seen … I'd know you could do that now."

"I didn't know that. I don't know how the Gate works." Roy pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

"Yes, you do. You do now."

"Do I?" Roy shook his head.

"Do you remember?" Ed's right hand touched Roy's wrist.

"Yes," muttered Roy. Then he huffed out a half-laugh. How could he forget?

"Then you should know." The cool steel grip squeezed Roy's wrist a little.

Roy put his free hand out and ruffled Ed's bangs. "I don't think" - how to put it? "I still don't think I've really processed the experience." To be absolutely and completely honest, Roy hadn't transmuted without an array even once since he'd gotten his sight back the evening of the Promised Day. Now that he actually looked at that fact, he wondered at it. How could he have left it so long? Sure, there had been so much to do - but why, two years later, was he still carrying a grease pencil in his jacket in case he lost his gloves, to scrawl an array on his hand that lived in his mind?

"You know," said Ed, "I didn't even do one transmutation for nearly a year after it happened. And Al didn't even _remember_ the Gate for years. Like, he'd blocked it out or something."

"That was why he started to transmute without arrays?"

"It's a big deal. Takes you a while. So, do you think you're blocked?" Ed swung their hands, unselfconscious. "You want to give it a try?"

No, Roy certainly didn't. The thought made his stomach clench. "All right." Ah, the power of his ego.

He let Edward's hand drop and tried to think of the simplest array possible. Something a child could do … "Kitchen," he said.

In the kitchen, Roy pulled a wine glass from the cupboard and broke the goblet with a sharp tap against the sink. The first array he'd learnt off by heart was this one, the reconstruction of glass. He remembered kneeling on the dusty floor of the bar, fixing broken barware to earn his mother's broad smile.

He placed the pieces on the tiled floor and knelt. He could feel Ed's eyes on him as he leant against the cupboards in Roy's peripheral vision.

The formula had stuck in Roy's head. When he closed his eyes, he could see it in his mind with complete clarity. He put his hands together, and tried to remember the feeling of the thing, of making the circle with his clasped hands and the array with his mind. Back on the Promised Day, in the middle of battle, the formulae had just come to him. He had clapped without thinking, had let the energy fire around the circuit of his body, as simple as a breath, and then shot it off. How had it _felt_ , though? When he remembered this, it was as though that part of him were numb.

Roy frowned. He opened his eyes. Ed was leaning down sideways into his field of vision, hair in his eyes.

"You _are_ blocked, aren't you?" Ed frowned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Maybe it's because you were taken to the Gate by force? I actually never worked that one out. I mean, Pride started the transmutation, he paid a passage fee, so why you too? Maybe -"

"I am _not_ blocked," Roy snapped. "Stop talking at me. I can't concentrate with you babbling."

"Fine," said Ed, disturbingly unruffled. "Show me."

"Stop badgering me and I will."

"I'm not!"

"So shut up, then!"

"I -" Ed rolled his eyes, pantomimed pulling a zipper across his lips, and stood back up to lean against the counter again.

Roy took a forceful breath out through his nostrils, and closed his eyes again. He slapped his hands together, picturing the array, the motion of - he froze. _Goddammit._ He really needed not to have an audience for this.

Ed looked at him and opened his mouth to say something. Roy tutted and held up a finger, then closed his eyes again.

 _One more time_. He concentrated on the Bar Christmas of his childhood, the way it was in his memories. The heavy drapes, the smell of his mother's cigarillos, whiff of stale beer on the floor, his foster sister Iris's heavy floral perfume. Maurice the cat half-asleep on the counter, paws tucked under him. The chalk in his hand, how he'd never liked the texture. The fine, dusty white line of the circle, the simple strokes and then the thrilling _rightness_ of the thread of power running around it.

He opened his eyes, spread his hands, then brought them back together. The circle completed itself as easily as a breath, and Roy's heart did a little flip as he felt the energy warming his hands. He held his concentration. The formula was clear and plain, and he let it exist. He touched the floor, and watched as the glass followed his will, knitting itself back together.

He was still grinning when Ed reached down and picked up the glass. He held it up to the light. "Nice," he said. It was a seamless fix. A seamless fix Roy had been able to execute since the age of eight, but still. "How's it feel?"

"Good," said Roy quietly. Amazing, in fact. Worryingly good, like the immediate, innocent, visceral pleasure he used to get from transmuting as a kid, as a teenager, as a young man. Before he'd learnt what alchemy could do, and that had sucked most of the fun out of it.

"Good," repeated Ed quietly.

The doorbell chimed.

The takeout was good, and the second round of sex, shortly afterwards, was very good indeed - but still, Roy didn't sleep well that night. As Ed sprawled across the bed, breathing evenly, Roy stared at the ceiling and ruminated. A flash of memory: Riza, fifteen years old, in her school pinafore, laughing at him with her eyes. _You want to try and crack the lock on Father's book cabinet so you can nose at all the banned things._ Of course he had wanted to. Alchemical learning was a slow cracking of codes and of concepts, patience, concentration, years of work. Alchemists dreamed of secrets.

Roy closed his eyes, and saw again that blank reflection of himself composed of particles of light, standing in front of a door covered in the signs of his alchemy, in a white empty world. According to Ed, everyone got the same little speech. That was rather funny. The bit Roy really remembered was the last part, when it said, _and I am you_ , and the eyeless face looked straight at him and grinned his own grin.

And then - down the centre of the Gate, in between the two doors, the thinnest line of light had started to appear. It reminded him of the alchemic locks on his own bookcases; of the crack of blue light that ran neatly down the centre of the bookcase doors the moment after he tapped the unlocking array, the moment before they swung silently and enticingly open. His chest had tightened with unbearable anticipation; his stomach had clenched.

It was a door to the universe.

It was so damn fast. A warning impulse to shut his eyes, _now_ , this was the thing that had shredded Alphonse Elric into a ghost - fighting a desperate alchemist's compulsion to see _what was in there_ \- and before he could force himself not to _want_ it so much, there were whips of black light around his arms, his legs, yanking him forward so fast that he was through the door before he knew it.

Then - then it had been indescribable. It was everything, everything at once. Knowledge and the joy of knowledge and the beauty of the universe and the terror, how perfectly its atoms fit together, gravity from the turn of the earth, heat-energy from the sun, water molecules buffeting each other in the damp clouds, a puddle drying in the sunlight, the gases in the air curling around each other like cigarette smoke of a dozen colours, everything, _absolutely everything_. It was unbearable and wonderful at the same time, shattering like an orgasm - and then it was gone. And he'd smashed into the floor of a pitch-dark room, with a splitting headache and a chaos of shouting around him.

Of course the Truth could hear your thoughts.

Afterwards, he remembered seeing a blinding white smile, flashing past him as the Gate pulled him in.

***

  


  


  


***

Ed found himself flying towards the ground again. He tucked, rolled, and just about managed to land in a crouch instead of on his ass like the last couple of times. As he rose and eyed his opponent, hands up in a combat stance, he saw Al go in for one of his signature elegant throw-downs - and almost immediately meet the same fate, his own height and momentum used against him to throw him over his target and straight down onto the dry summer turf of Armstrong Park.

How was it? How was it that Ed and Al were now martial arts experts, grown-up and buff and taller than her, and yet Izumi Curtis could still knock them both on their asses with the same casual ease as she had when they were in short pants?

"Al," Teacher said, "your focus is getting mediocre. Have you been slacking off on your meditation regime as well as on the sparring?"

"No, I've kept it up," Al protested, "I need it for my rentanjutsu practice!" Ed saw his chance. He sprang around with a low sweeping kick to take Teacher's feet out from under her from behind - and she jumped over his kick without even looking. Half a moment later, a sandalled foot landed square in the middle of his back and knocked him chin first into the dirt.

"Right, boys," said Teacher cheerfully, picking up her handbag from the grass. "How about I take you for some breakfast? My treat."

***

"It's bad news." Hands laced and tucked under his chin, Roy looked steadily around the table. A dozen faces looked back at him. "If Hakuro's openly letting his own people tail us, that means time is short."

"He's hardly getting any more popular," Riza added. "So it's likely he believes the Homunculus will be ready for action soon."

"Our best case scenario," Roy continued, "is this. One, we manage as soon as possible to mobilise enough support - from the military, parliament, industry and the people - to move. And two, we manage to get Chrysalis and the Homunculus in custody."

He paused, looking around again, assessing. Ross was mirroring his pose unconsciously, her hands folded together on the table and her eyes large and serious. Breda was frowning and sticking his bottom lip out, his I-mean-business look. They believed Roy could do this. They believed _they_ could do it, under his command. He squeezed his hands together a little, and took a breath. "Now. What if we get enough support to take power before we're able to locate Chrysalis? That's doable, but it's risky. We can't leave Chrysalis running around the country with a Homunculus in his front pocket, so we'd need to put a lot of energy into finding him at a time when we'd need all hands on deck to stabilise the country."

"And Hakuro's people would be much more trouble if we haven't captured their secret weapon," Riza added. "They'd think they had a chance."

Roy nodded. "Next option. If we capture the Homunculus, then the problem of gaining sufficient support solves itself, with a little spin. Hakuro's always been openly against taboo alchemy. If we make what he's done public, it would sink him beyond hope. Therefore, the current plan is to continue throwing as much as we can at our search efforts. We consider all avenues. And when we get a lead, we move immediately. In the meantime, we continue to broaden our base of support. But the search takes first priority. So. What's the current state of play?"

Falman shuffled papers and took a breath - but it was someone else who said, "Sir."

It was Miles. "There's a fourth possibility to plan for that you didn't mention." His voice was even. "Defeat."

Roy said nothing for a moment. The room was silent - but he could feel the tension that suddenly strung the place taut.

"Sir," said Breda. He was addressing Miles, his brows lowered. "Around here, we don't talk about defeat."

"Perhaps it's time we did, Lieutenant," said Miles evenly.

"Do you mean, if the Homunculus were ready tomorrow? We have the signal-to-strike flare protocol," said Riza. Her tone had that subtle clipped quality it took on when she was taken aback. "We'd send the flare up over the city, and move for power immediately."

"Yes. But I didn't mean that," said Miles. It seemed he hadn't even shared these thoughts with Riza yet. "I'm asking, what would we do if during that strike - or any other time - it became clear we were going to lose?"

"Sir," said Breda, "we don't do that here."

"So you said," Miles said. "But everyone does that one day, yes? Pretending that we're all immortal and invincible is not determination, it's unsound military strategy. A plan for every option means a plan for defeat."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop another couple of degrees. Around the table, people stirred. Roy heard murmurs. Havoc's lips twitched as he mouthed something silently across the table. Ed was staring furiously at the centre of the table, his eyes huge.

Roy was observing the shock and anger in the room so intently that that it took him a moment to realise: he himself wasn't outraged at all.

Something lit up in his mind.

"Major," he said. "What would you advise?"

"A plan of retreat," said Miles. "Retreat, survive, salvage, and regroup."

Roy brought his chin up. "You're absolutely right." He looked around the room, at the tense and watchful faces of his people. "If the worst happens - then we still have to struggle for survival. If we survive, we can still move."

Havoc tapped a pen against the table. "We've managed it before."

Roy inclined his head. "We should remember that." There were a few nods from around the table. Roy imagined that he felt the air in the room shift once more.

Riza took the cue. "Now," she began. "If we review the plan for each scenario in turn."

As the meeting rolled onward - the beginnings of a plan discussed, the latest leads on Chrysalis scrutinised - Roy found himself feeling oddly triumphant. Ah, his ego. No, he couldn't give himself the credit for this one - but he could at least give himself the credit for hiring well. Even as a paid-up member of Team Mustang, Miles remained distinctly his own man. They were such a tight-knit team, his people. They'd been through everything together, stood against impossible odds. They thought in unison. And it was a strength so much of the time, that it was easy to forget it was also a weakness which could bring them down. They needed people to point out their blind spots, to stop them making grave mistakes. This was exactly why Roy had been right to bring Mrs Curtis on board, too. Did Hakuro have the sense to hire people who'd disagree with him? Roy found himself doubting it. He was a stubborn man, slow to change his mind. What might he be missing?

Riza was last to file out of the room. As she gathered her papers, Roy smiled and raised an eyebrow at her. Riza shook her head and chuckled.

 _If we survive, we can still move._ Roy rolled the phrase around his head as he walked through his department. It was vaguely familiar. It wasn't until he was sitting at his desk, reaching for his to-do list, that he realised he had been quoting Hughes.

***

The best breakfast in the world, at least so far in Al's experience, was crusty bread rolls with butter and slices of yellow cheese and ham. The café opposite Al and Ed's flat gave you jam and honey too, and bowls of milky breakfast coffee, and in the summer they set tables out on the street under their awning. Sitting opposite of Al, Ed finished assembling a thick sandwich of ham, cheese, a quarter-inch layer of butter and tomatoes. Then he unhinged his jaw and managed to get about half of it in a bite.

Al took a sip of coffee and absently watched a pretty girl crossing the street. "We're lucky we got the last table here," he said. Breakfast at home was not to be found. Al had stayed too long at the library yesterday morning, and had managed to miss the iceman's round yet again. Iceless, their icebox was currently a warm, smelly cupboard.

"Mmph," said Ed. Then he frowned, and propped his chin on his hand.

A moment later, Al realised why. From the table behind Ed, he heard someone say, distinctly, "war."

It was a party of four, three women and a man, all in their twenties. "And they're not reporting any of it in the papers," one of the women said. A car drove past, and the next thing Al caught was the man saying, "Eclipse Day all over again." For the next few minutes, Al and Ed ate in silence, trying to listen. Al heard mention of "Bradleyism," he picked up the fear which seemed to creep in at the edges of the conversation. "It's going to happen," another of the party kept saying, "it's going to happen." The conversation turned to the best routes out of the city in a crisis, whether the trains would be running, whether the roads would be blocked.

It was a gorgeous Saturday morning, gorgeous enough that the student population of the university district all seemed to have hauled themselves out of bed to get an early start on their slacking. And yet: Al was getting used to hearing this kind of talk in public. You noticed it most in a pub at about nine o'clock: after people had settled in, conversations turned and the mood darkened.

"Yo. Elric and Elric?"

Al looked up. It was the girl he'd seen crossing the street a minute ago. She was standing by their table now: a Xingese girl about his own age with bobbed hair and a stripey dress. He'd never seen her before in his life.

"Uh -" Ed began.

"Pretend you know me," the girl said quickly. "Don't look, okay, but that guy at the table by the door is a spook, he's watching us."

"Hey!" said Al loudly. "How've you been?"

"Awesome," said the girl. "Invite me to sit down."

"Pull up a chair," said Ed flatly. "Did, you know, the Madam send you?"

"Yep," she said. "Delivery girl." She picked up one of their bread rolls. "So, make some pointless small talk at me."

Ed blew a breath up into his bangs. "Nice day for it," he said.

"That's a cute dress," said Al.

"Why, thank you," said the girl, helping herself to the last slice of ham.

A moment later, Al felt a little hand squeezing his thigh under the table. He just about managed not to react.

Then the girl leaned across, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and waved at Ed. "Well, I've got to go do some stuff now. See you guys around sometime," she said.

Al waited until she was a few yards away, then put his hand to his thigh. He'd thought he'd heard paper crackle. Sure enough, he could feel an envelope there.

"Well," said Ed, "that was some classic Roy Mustang suspense drama for you. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing the way someone would do it in a crappy spy movie." There was a weird little grin on his face, the corner of his mouth pulling up and twitching. Al knew that particular look. He took a breath, and decided once again not to go there.

As Al rose, he slipped the envelope into his book bag. After they'd paid and left the café, Al only got as far as the hall of their building before Ed pulled the envelope from his bag and tore it open. Al hovered behind him and looked over his shoulder.

Al scanned the note quickly, then blinked: it was in Ed's own alchemy code. It was, of course, from the brigadier general. Al spared Ed a look; his ears had gone pink. Al raised an eyebrow, Ed managed a twitch of a shrug; then they both turned back to the letter.

Ed's code took the form of a travel journal, so it wasn't for a few moments that Al realised the letter was describing an actual journey. They were being ordered out west, via a complicated train route doubtless intended to throw off pursuers. Once they got to Papenburg, they were to go to a particular hotel, where they'd receive further instructions.

"Didn't we -" Al started, and then stopped as Ed gestured up the stairs. They headed inside the flat, and Al continued, "Didn't we stay at that exact hotel a few years ago?"

"Yeah," said Ed. "This time you get to whine about the crappy mattresses too. This has got to be Chrysalis, right?"

"Mustang's sending us both. That's got to mean he thinks it's something big. I guess we'll find out when we get there?"

"Or," Ed said. From out the envelope, he pulled another slip of paper, folded over and sealed. On it was written, _open this on the train_. Ed grinned and tore it open.

Inside, it just said, _I knew you wouldn't open this on the train._

Ed cackled. "Asshole." He shook his head. "I'll get him back."

"Have fun with that," Al said mildly. The cat pushed its head against his calf. "So, Zozimos," he said, "we've got three hours to get you a vacation home."

Ed tutted without malice; after two weeks, they were still deadlocked over the cat's name. "Teacher could come over and feed him?"

"You want her to see how much of a shambles this place is?"

Ed shrugged. "She's seen it already, the deed's done."

"But her hotel's halfway across town. She'd come over once a day, we don't know how long we're going to be away. He won't get enough stimulation! He'll be bored and act out!" Ed arched an eyebrow. "Okay then, what about the books?" Ed's eyes went wide. Between the two of them, they had at least fifteen illegal alchemy texts sealed in a strongbox in the corner of the living room, along with Ed's sidearm. "You know she'll get into the box in no time, and you know we'll get back and there'll just be a big pile of ashes in there instead."

Ed sighed. "And then she'll dropkick us both into the box head first. Okay, it's not happening. Who can we send him to?" Ed bent down and scratched the cat's head. The cat purred, stretched and rubbed its whole body against him.

"Maybe Captain Ross -" Al started.

"No," Ed chipped in, "I got a better idea." He was grinning. The grin meant trouble.

***

Ed checked the time on his watch, and took the stairs two at a time. "It's me," he called out as he keyed himself in. There was a called 'hello' from inside. Roy was in. Roy, who, at least when they met at his, was starting to be Roy now, not Mustang. It made a weird kind of sense, the two names, almost as if Ed's commanding officer and the guy he was fucking were two different people. Which of course they weren't, but still: it felt like a boundary. Boundaries were good.

Roy was in one of his usual spots: sitting on the sofa in the living room, surrounded by a nest of paperwork, a steaming mug resting beside him. "I just successfully reheated my coffee by clapping at it," he said. "Tastes absolutely disgusti - what's that?"

Ed brandished the wicker picnic basket Roy was staring at. The basket meowed. Roy raised his eyebrows. "I guess you reap what you sow, _sir_ ," said Ed, setting the basket down and starting to undo it. "You want Fullmetal and Bridgewire out of town for a couple of weeks, so Fullmetal decided to see if he could offload his main domestic responsibility onto this guy he's screwing."

The basket meowed again.

"Absolutely not," said Roy.

"I'm going to make this totally worth your while," said Ed.

"You're prostituting yourself for cat care?" Roy put his head on one side for a moment. "All right, what are you offering?"

Ed shuffled on his feet, but then the moment of embarrassment left him and he was shameless again. "How about for starters, I pin you down on that sofa and - uh, damn. Is there actually a word for that thing, that thing where you rub your dicks together?"

"Frotting," said Roy helpfully.

"Dammit! He was right after all -" Ed stopped himself.

Roy raised his eyebrows.

"Okay," Ed tried, "that sounded weird, it's just a bet I had with this friend of mine, a while ago, this stupid running joke thing where he claimed there was a word for it in Amestrian and I said-"

Roy chuckled very deeply and dangerously. "That wouldn't be your friend the Emperor, would it?"

"Yes," said Ed flatly.

Roy said nothing, he just grinned fit to bust.

Ed folded his arms and tutted. "I didn't even say anything happened," he said. "What the hell makes you think anything happened?"

Roy smirked, with emphasis.

"Yeah, yeah," Ed muttered, bending to undo the straps on the basket. "Laugh it up." He hauled out the cat. It took some doing. There was a lot of cat to haul. Done, Ed brandished him at Roy. "Here he is. Predator Dead Xerxean Elric."

"That's not a cat," Roy said, "that's a small bear."

"He comes," said Ed, "with a bunch of shit Al thinks he needs." He swung the backpack from his shoulder, set it on the floor, and pulled a note out of his back pocket.

Roy took the note and read it. Then he turned it over, read the other side, shuffled the second sheet to the front, and read that too. His brows furrowed more and more. "Half an hour a day of waving a piece of string at him _for mental stimulation and bonding?_ "

"Al thinks the cat's going to have a nervous breakdown if you don't hug on him enough." The cat sniffed tentatively at Roy's leg, then sat on his feet.

Roy raised an eyebrow. "So, that joke about him hiding cats in his armour, back in the day - actually true?"

"Every damn word," said Ed. "Trust me, I had to clean out the kitten shit from inside of his chestplate."

As Ed filled up the litter tray and set down food and water for the cat, he could still hear Roy chuckling intermittently in the living room. As he walked back in, Roy folded his papers and set them aside.

"Right," Roy said, "is there any chance you still feel like pinning me down and doing that thing that you're not sure there's a word for?"

Ed looked him up and down for a moment. "You're so fucking annoying," he said, truthfully. Why did people who annoyed Ed make him hot? It was the bane of his life. Still, whatever. Without another word, he crossed the room, pulled down Roy's pants and shoved up his shirt, then pinned him down and did that thing that there was apparently actually a word for.

A couple of minutes into the proceedings, he realised that the cat was sitting three feet away, staring at them like they were nuts.


	7. A Grin Without a Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy practices and preaches, while the Elric brothers experience some serious _déjà vu_.

In Rose's little front room, perched on the edge of an upright old armchair, Al carefully set another log on the fire. The dry bark caught immediately: it curled up, crackling, and sent tiny bright sparks flying up the chimney. Al imagined the smell. Spicy. The scent of wood made you hungry. Sometimes he found that the recollection of a smell or a taste was gone from his mind and couldn’t be summoned; but tonight the sense-memory came to him cleanly and vividly.

Al's father held his hands out in front of the fire. Its reflection flickered over the lenses of his spectacles. Al thought about having cold hands, about feeling the harsh heat of an open fire upon them.

His father told him stories. Every night, that winter before the Promised Day in Lior, they would sit around the fire together, long after Winry and Rose had gone up to bed.

"... it's a drink made from mint leaves and flavoured with crushed cardamom seeds," his father said. Al had never tasted cardamom, but he nodded anyway. "They used to chill it with ice from the icehouses. It's the best thing of all for a hot day. I've never been able to make it, though. And I've never met anyone who could make it properly, not once since Xerxes." He paused, then blinked and nodded. "Ah, yes, yes," he said. "Ehsan the potter tells me that his wife used to keep it cold in the cellar. Icehouses were for rich people."

Al nodded, feeling thankful for his automatic poker face. He did a brief mental check of his body language: was his posture too obviously wigged out? Al’s father, like a lot of people, seemed to think of Al as unflappable. He suspected the armor played a part in this notion - but in truth, he couldn’t get used to the moments when his father was interrupted by the voices in his head.

Another night, another subject. "He used to draw my blood by cutting a vein, and then bind the wound with a transmutation," said Al's father. "But then, after he started to train me, feeding the Homunculus became my job. Every morning, first thing, I would draw some blood from my arm into a bowl, then I'd have to open the jar and feed it in, drop by drop." Al shifted in his seat. "It was talking by then, of course, and so when it had absorbed the blood, it used to be able to tell me if I was sick that day - even what I'd had for breakfast. I’ve never worked out how it managed that last one.” He sounded almost affectionate.

His father described it as a cloud in a jar, but Al somehow always pictured the Homunculus, back then, as a human baby the size of a thimble, with a mouse-squeak of a cry. Every time they touched upon this subject, the image would pop into his head, no less strong for its inaccuracy: his father's old master, an old man in sandy linen robes, cradling a tiny homunculus-baby in the palm of his hand and feeding it his father's blood, drop by drop.

***

"So, this pastry,” said Al, gesturing with it. "It really, really doesn't taste as good as it looks."

"It fills a hole," said Ed, shrugging. "What do you expect from a greasy mystery meat pastry thing an old lady sold you through the window at a train station?"

Al sighed and slumped in his seat a couple of inches. Some more of the western hills rolled by outside the window. "Remember when we were here five years ago? You got one then. I couldn’t stop thinking how good it looked. Life can be very disappointing sometimes.”

"I don't even remember it," said Ed, “which means it was crappy. The bad road food all blurs into one, but that - lucky for you - is to save brain space for my encyclopaedic knowledge of all of the _greatest_ road food this country has to offer. Like, there’s a pretty kickass place near our hotel in Papenburg. Let’s go find that for dinner tonight.”

Al cycled through his memories, which tended towards the photographic when it came to meals he’d seen but hadn’t eaten. “The little place with the lace window things and the stew? Are you sure? I remember it looked kind of brown. The stew, I mean."

"Stew that looks brown is good stew,” said Ed in a definitive tone. “By the way: did you get a chance to make _that call_?” He jiggled his eyebrows, mock-stealthily. A couple days back, they’d decided that some alternate perspectives were needed on some of the blocks in their understanding of homunculi. Selim Bradley might have no memory of his past life, but Ed and Al just happened to personally know the only other living person with experience of being a homunculus: the Emperor of Xing. Al, meanwhile, was finding that speculations on Xerxean alchemy were stretching his apprentice knowledge of rentanjutsu to its limits; it was time to call an expert.

“Should we be -?” Al pulled a face.

Ed rolled his eyes and gestured at the empty carriage. “Who’s here? Bet I could even take this stupid hat off.” The hat apparently - and hilariously - had been a last minute loan from Mustang, to hide Ed’s ponytail. There wasn’t much point in further disguise: if Katzenklavier had his people looking out for two blond guys, they’d be on alert every ten minutes. “So,” Ed prompted, “did you call?”

“Yeah, but no luck,” said Al. “Mei’s not in the capital right now, she’s at Yulong Temple - training or something, I guess.”

“Does Yulong Temple have a phone?”

Al rolled his eyes. “It’s at the top of a mountain in the middle of one of the most remote provinces in Xing. What do you think? Anyway, did _you_ get to call?”

“Yeah,” Ed said. “I did it from Mustang’s phone, his bill is going to be amazing. The number worked but then I just got some random guy on the end of the line, don’t even know who he was. He said he’d pass it on.” Ed rolled his eyes. “Bet Ling never even gets it.”

“Well, you know,” Al said. “It’s possible he’s busy? I hear he’s got a job.”

Ed narrowed his eyes and snorted. “Trust me, he’ll have found ways to slack. Does the Chang palace have a phone?”

“Yeah,” nodded Al, “That was my next idea. I had to go get our train, but they know me at the palace. I’m sure if I’m nice enough and I explain how important it is, they’ll send a messenger up to the temple.”

Ed nodded, then blew a harsh breath up into his bangs. He folded his arms on the table, then dropped his chin on them, facing the window. He always loathed waiting. And for all that Al had gotten good at it, he didn’t like it too much himself.

Al propped his head on his hand and looked out the window: it looked like rain. The train seat was getting uncomfortable. He’d have to get up and stretch his legs soon, or his ass would go to sleep. How come the crappy train seats had never used to bother Ed? The last time they were out this way … Al must have been what, thirteen? They'd been chasing some urban legend about a local alchemist who had his own Stone and never aged. And they'd never found the guy in the end, had they? They'd just gone around in circles, _my pal Bill's buddy says that his cousin met him_. They'd been young and dumb enough that it had taken them days to work out the story went nowhere. When they worked it out, Al had tried to make Ed feel better, saying it was _a really interesting object lesson in how people tell stories_.

With the benefit of hindsight, Al could see that he'd been kind of a weird thirteen year old. Well, he guessed he was a weird eighteen year old now.

And then, suddenly, that image popped into his head once more - his father's old master, feeding the tiny, monstrous baby. Selim Bradley had looked like that once. He was a fragment of that Homunculus. In a weird way, he was like Ed and Al's cousin, Al guessed. In an extremely weird way.

Their father ... looking back, it was so obvious that their father had known already, that winter, what he was going to do on the Promised Day: that he was going to die, so that Al was going to live. He, and Ehsan and Maryam and Dani and half a million more: the family Al and Ed would never meet, the aunts and uncles who had died, centuries ago, and taken their recipes and jokes, their books and their language, taken it all with them into silence.

Al felt the void they'd left once more and tried to remain grateful.

***

It was Saturday lunchtime, and most of the customers at the Little Cat Bar and Cabaret were out at the street benches. Deserted, the interior felt dusty and a little sad. Maria was used to seeing it heaving with people. She took a sip of her beer. Rebecca continued her work of pacing around the empty tables by the stage.

The bartender in the tank top looked at the gun on Rebecca’s hip, then looked back at Maria. Then he pretended he was looking somewhere else. Maria had never seen him here before, he must be new. Maria really wished they’d had time to change out of uniform. Somehow, being at work on a Saturday made you look even more military. He was giving Maria that look, too, the do-I-know-you look. After two years, people had mostly stopped recognising her from the papers. Even back after her name had been publicly cleared, most of the attention had been sympathetic - but the times when it hadn't been were memorable. The bartender went back to looking elsewhere, apparently without recognising her. It was so lovely to be getting her anonymity back.

Rebecca returned to the small step between the tables and the bar area. She put the heel of her boot against it, measured and evaluated. The bartender carried on staring. Maria carried on trying to look reassuring.

Apparently finished, Rebecca bounced back to the bar and hopped up on her stool. “Quick question,” she said to the bartender. Ignoring his frozen look, she continued, “Do you have table service on cabaret nights?”

Ah. So that was what this was about.

“Yes?” said the bartender.

“Excellent!” said Rebecca. “Could I get ten tickets for Friday night’s performance?”

They took the rest of their beers to the sunny benches outside.

“Don’t tell Jean, okay?” Rebecca said. “I mean, obviously I’m gonna tell him that he’s cool to get in here with the chair, but, I don’t want to make it a thing.”

Maria nodded. “Doesn’t he normally farm out these scouting jobs to his secretary?” Havoc’s secretary, Addison, seemed to have an expanding portfolio of tasks that were neither on his official job description (administrative support) nor his real job description (doing Havoc’s official job so Havoc could get on with his real job).

“This isn’t about a client,” Rebecca said. “And I know Jean hates being coddled, it’s just I got these tickets to cheer him up and I didn’t want to screw it up, is all.”

“You’re taking your boyfriend to a gay bar to cheer him up?”

“I’m cheering my boyfriend up by getting tickets to a hot cabaret revue that’s supposed to be amazing. Which happens to be in a gay bar, which is not a thing because he’s broad-minded and cosmopolitan and very secure about his sexuality.”

“Jean likes cabaret?”

“This is _political satire_ cabaret.” Maria pulled a sceptical face. “No,” said Rebecca, “hold on a minute, give a second! This isn’t one of those veiled-reference, need-a-decoder-ring kind of satire! This is totally outrageous. My friend Max said no one can believe they’re getting away with it!”

“As in what?”

“As in, amongst other things, they have a hot lesbian Bradley impersonator.”

Maria raised her eyebrows. “Can they even do that?”

“Apparently they can. _And_ there’s a whole number about Mustang versus Hakuro. _And_ there’s this whole bit about the coup. And - wait - you have your shocked face on. Do you think this is in poor taste?”

Maria blew a breath out. “Probably? Mostly, I just really want to see this thing before they shut it down.”

“Who’s _they_?” said Rebecca. “Nobody’s been shutting anything down since the Promised Day. The Provisional Government can’t agree on anything long enough.” Maria chuckled. “So, how come you haven’t heard about this? I thought you went to the Little Cat all the time?”

“Used to,” corrected Maria. “I’ve hardly been getting out since everything started kicking off these last few months. By the time I get out of work, I’m wiped. Every time I go round to Julia’s, I just fall asleep on the couch right after dinner. It’s so embarrassing.”

“This is the exact thing!” said Rebecca, spiralling a finger in the air. “Jean’s wound up and wiped out, I’m wound up and wiped out. We’re all working too hard and we need to let off some steam. That’s why I snapped up ten tickets, the Friday show sells out quick. You and Julia in?”

Maria nodded.

“And, I’m gonna try to get Breda to bring his mystery girlfriend.”

“Yes, that’s so odd,” Maria said. “He normally tells us a bit too much about his encounters with the ladies. Why do you think he’s clammed up?”

“I dunno. I did wonder if she works for the other team, but Jean says there’s no way. Apparently Breda has this whole secret gentlemanly streak, it kicks in when he really likes someone.”

“Riza has to come along.”

“We’ll pry her away from the office with a shoehorn, if necessary.”

“Drag Bradley …” mused Maria. “Does he sing?”

“We are about to find out. Max didn’t say if Riza was in it, but dear god I hope so. And that she comes along to see it. I may have to bring a camera.”

***

***

 

Riza squinted down the sights of the gun, and lined up her target: the dead centre of Roy Mustang's chest. Her own chest panged briefly - but then she squeezed the trigger. 

Just as she fired, Roy clapped and dropped to a crouch; she barely had time to compensate her aim. The defensive wall shot up from the ground - and the paint pellet splattered across the top as it did. 

Riza took a quick, habitual glance around the deserted parade ground, then shouldered her paint gun. She strode up to the wall. From behind it, there was a slightly plaintive voice. "I got paint in my hair again."

"It washes out," Riza said, scraping at the alchemic wall with a finger. "This one's a bit crumbly. Weren't you trying to adjust the density?"

Roy's head poked around the wall. There was, indeed, a smear of blue paint in his bangs. "I was. It's not exactly easy to concentrate when you're on the hop." He sighed. "It's the whole-body-movement thing that gets me. I’m good with reflexes if I’m snapping, but if it's gymnastics ... the Elrics make this look too easy.”

"Mrs Curtis is just as fast as they are," Riza said, "and she's older than you, _and_ she's got a medical condition. You should take her up on that offer of practice sessions."

Roy pulled a face, but he didn't argue.  "You never cut me any slack," he said. 

"If you wanted slack, you wouldn't be practicing defensive alchemy with me," Riza said. Then, because Roy was looking a little like a kicked puppy, "You are improving, you know."

"I know," said Roy. "You know, you should practice with me against Mrs Curtis. With your paint gun. For preparedness' sake: after all, when we fight together, we're on the same side. Usually.”

Riza let the corners of her mouth twitch up. Then she stepped back, and Roy nodded, and they went for another round. 

This time Roy managed to get the wall up. The round after, the paint pellet struck him squarely in the chin. 

“That’ll bruise," Roy commented. “I’ll have to meet Mr Hazare with a blue chin.”

“I’ll lend you make-up,” said Riza, cheerfully ignoring his raised eyebrow. “How’s that going, by the way?” 

“Madeline got nothing out of his right-hand man - other than some baby photos and a story about Hazare’s crusade against crooked landlords in the East End.” Leon Hazare, they had heard a few days ago, had just announced his candidacy for the Progressive Democratic Party. Other than the fact that he represented a blue-collar district of Central, they knew remarkably little about him. The Prog Dems were Parliament’s only openly pro-democracy faction (and how peculiarly Amestrian it was to have a parliament who didn’t all favour democracy!). This made them opponents of the old guard, and therefore allies of Team Mustang. The fact that two months ago a small faction of them had plotted vigorously to screw over Team Mustang did nothing to change that they needed each other. 

Riza tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “A straight shooter?”

“Potentially, it seems.” Roy raised an eyebrow. “He’s agreed to meet me, that’s a start. But after the Flowers case, I’m assuming nothing.”

Riza conceded the point. She marched back to get into position again. Roy stood with one arm raised, the other hovering around his pocket. Riza gave him a moment to get tense - then squeezed off a couple of rounds, tracking him down as he clapped and dropped to a crouch. The first round went over his head - and the second detonated squarely in the middle of his new wall. 

Roy stepped from behind his wall with showy deliberation. He leant against it, folded his arms, and smirked for all he was worth. 

“Sure that will take your weight?” asked Riza, approaching. She poked at it, and found it solid and sandy this time. 

Roy’s smirk dropped into a smaller, realer smile. “I believe I’m making actual progress.”

She nodded. It was true: that discomfort she’d noticed in Roy at first as he clapped had vanished now, was giving way to an easy competence. He was starting to seem more like his battlefield self, even down to the overconfidence. It was a good development, she told herself, overall. Roy had an advantage, they should make use of it. “You’re getting faster,” she said. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t bug me more about this before,” Roy said.  

Riza cocked her head. “I thought you might have been - well, blocked. Alphonse didn’t transmute without a circle for years, remember?”

Roy nodded and for a moment, he looked across the parade ground. “I suppose I _was_ blocked,” he said slowly. “It’s funny, after all that, it didn’t take much to get through it.” 

They went another two rounds, then packed it in for the day. They walked across the parade ground together, and Roy tried to pick the bits of paint from his hair. 

"I don’t know how much I’ll be able to sound out Hazare in one meeting,” Roy said, "but perhaps it'd still be good to slot in a quick briefing at mine after -"

"I'm not coming over to clean out that cat’s litter tray," said Riza briskly. "Nice try, though."

"Damn," said Roy. “Ah well, give my regards to Major Miles.”

The moment his name was mentioned, Riza felt the usual push-pull of her feelings when it came to Duncan Miles: a dizzy little stomach-flip of affection, followed immediately by that automatic urge to hold herself back, hold herself in. “No, I’m just going to head home,” said Riza quickly. “I should get an early night.” 

“Why not do both?” said Roy. He was smirking again, a bit. Riza mock-glowered and tutted at him; and ignored his point. In truth, Duncan had asked her over for the night, in that lovely, unpressured way of his. _Come if you’d like._

Roy looked at her for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t. They walked on towards the edge of the parade ground. Riza felt the edges of an old and nameless discomfort breaking in between them. _Right_ , she thought, _back to work -_  

“You’re so brutal with yourself over small indulgences.” 

Riza whipped her head round. Where had that come from? She huffed in a breath, and felt a sharp rush of anger, felt bothered and intruded upon and needled. She didn’t say anything. She quickened her pace. 

“I’m sorry,” said Roy, quickly, and he sounded it. “That was out of line, I shouldn’t have said it. Just -“ He cut himself off. 

Riza looked at him. Roy’s bursts of truth-telling were almost never aimed at her, and he’d sounded so harsh and sad. And he was wrong, too. No, he didn’t get it, wasn’t it the comfort of her independence that made her ration her evenings with Duncan? Or - _was_ it entirely that? 

“No,” Riza found herself saying. “It’s all right. Really. I do do that, I know I do. But - I’ve got very used to being on my own, and - well, sometimes, being with someone can feel - well, a little like slacking off, and -“ _Slacking off_ didn’t quite cover it, of course. 

“I know,” said Roy, feelingly. Riza looked at him, and felt relief at being understood, and instantly scrubbed out most of her previous annoyance. Of course he knew. Wasn’t it the same for him, after all? He nodded, then quirked a half-grin. “You’re going to say that I love to slack. But, anyway. I know.” 

They looked at each other for a moment, then looked back ahead. The silence between them turned easy again. Together they walked to the gates of Headquarters. 

 _I’ll weigh it up on the way home_ , Riza thought. _Perhaps I’ll call Duncan, perhaps I’ll just have some popcorn and read in my pyjamas._ But by the time she’d walked two blocks, she’d given into herself, and knew already that she was going to call him. 

***

The route that Roy - Mustang, whatever Ed was calling him these days - had sent them on was complicated indeed. Their final train of three was a creaky, slow local service which stopped at every single one-street village along the way. By the time it finally pulled into Papenburg Station, Ed and Al had numb butts, empty bellies and a silent mutual agreement to hit the restaurant quickly before they checked in at the hotel and picked up their orders.

The little restaurant with lace curtains was still there, the beef stew was still on the menu, and it was just as good as Ed remembered it. Watching Al devour his bowl, mopping it up with the dense, crusty local bread, Ed felt one of those occasional surges of utter relief. He made himself think about his father a moment. Much as he’d railed against it, much as he’d wanted to fix his own messes and make his own sacrifice, the old man had given them a gift. The right thing to do was remember, and do something good with it.

When they walked into the hotel’s chintzy little reception area (what was it with small towns and lace everywhere?), Ed was nursing the last remnants of his good mood. Before Ed could get there first, Al had his hand out for the room key and the envelope waiting for them. Ed narrowed his eyes, and Al smiled blandly. Of course he thought Ed would just open the orders right there in the foyer, and - well, he probably would. But, dammit, he was in suspense here! What had they been called out here for? It had to be big. Roy had refused to tell him, on the grounds that his public code-talk wasn’t always discreet enough - which was annoying, and persnickety, and probably kind of accurate.

Their room was up two flights of stairs. They took them briskly. Once inside the room, Ed threw his suitcase down on the lacy-pillowed bed, and went to grab the envelope from Al.

Inside the envelope was a short letter, and a series of sheets of mimeographed police reports. Ed and Al spread them out on the floor as they read. They were all missing persons reports.

The covering letter made the story unpleasantly clear. An address at the edge of town had been receiving regular couriered shipments marked as volatile substances. Captain Havoc must have had a contact at the courier company. The last shipment had been opened (the letter didn't say by whom) and had proved indeed to contain several substances on their alchemical red flag list. The next step was the nasty part: someone or other had managed to discover that the town in question had a sudden rise in the number of missing persons.

"Look at this," Ed said, jabbing a finger at the end of one report. "This old guy, he was like a tramp who'd been living under the bridge fifteen years. Sounds like the whole town knew him, but the police didn't lift a damn finger about it! Says here they're assuming he "moved on"'.

Al sighed. "These are the same." He pointed to a pile. "They're all seasonal farm workers. You think someone bribed the cops?"

"Or," Ed says, "the town police here are just assholes."

"So," said Al, "two things. I mean, apart from that. One, if this is what it looks like, they're picking on people with no family, no permanent home. I mean, if you wanted to get away with murder …”

"And you think this is what it looks like?" Ed asked. His stomach felt suddenly tight and sick. He was kind of regretting the stew.

Al nodded. His eyebrows creased together in a frown. "Two, if this is what it looks like, then - they're doing what we thought."

"So, they're feeding people to the Homunculus." Ed shoved a hand into his hair. "Fuck. Right. Is there anything else it could be? I mean, could they just be feeding it blood?"

"If they are, it's gotten hungry. I mean, the stories Dad told me about feeding the Homunculus were pretty much like the way it's described in _The Perfection of Matter._ Tiny amounts of blood, just a few spoonfuls. You wouldn’t need to be kidnapping people, you could draw your own blood, even.”

"But the Homunculus of Xerxes ... " Ed cycled his shoulders. "We think they deliberately kept it small so they could control it. If this one's gotten hungrier, then - fuck, no, that’s the same story. That means it'd be growing its own Philosopher's Stone. It's eating souls."

They both let that one sit for a moment.

“I hope the Homunculus is still small enough for us to take them down,” Al said slowly. “Because I really, really want to bust them.”

Ed sighed explosively. “Yeah. I know. Fuck.” Because here was the thing: they’d fought enough homunculi to know that if the thing had gotten powerful enough, it could take a crowd to take it down. A crowd, or Roy. But every spy in Hakuro’s faction would be on it if Roy left town. Besides, with Roy’s face in every newspaper in the country, getting him out West in secrecy would take a hell of a lot more than a hat.

“So,” said Al. “Sneaky, until we’ve seen enough to make the call on whether we can take it or not.”

And if they couldn’t? They’d better be able to get out of there discreet and quick enough to be able to call in the big guns. Fuck knows how the big guns were supposed to sneak their way over here. Ed supposed they’d have to think of something, if it came to it. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t.

"So," said Al, "do we bust them now, or try surprising them at 4am?"

"I don't want to wait," said Ed. The thought of just sitting in their hotel room for all those hours, with a pile of papers bearing the names of people who'd likely died in pain and fear to make this thing a weapon ... it was intolerable.

"You never do," said Al. But Ed could see it in his eyes that he felt the same way.

***

 _He was dead._

 _The fact was solid as a brick: no matter how much, despite himself, Roy half-expected it to disintegrate under its own unbearable weight. Ed lay on an empty road with a red hole in his chest; he lay on a slab in a cold room, with a waxy face and a decorous sheet covering him to the shoulders. Roy searched for the culprits, he plotted and strategised and organised, and none of this endless slog got him an inch further to what he really wanted: to talk to Ed, to have just an hour, a moment in his company, hearing his low drawl, feeling the hot blast of his intelligence. It was unbearable, and -_

He was awake. The comforting sounds of the city at night filtered through the open window. For a few groggy moments, Roy listened to passing cars and the echoing shouts of late-night drunks, while the knowledge gradually filled him that he was reprieved: Ed was not dead at all. The dream had tricked him, as dreams always do.

Roy's stomach rolled over slowly. The nameless cat padded on the bed, feeling his restlessness, then settled itself heavily on his legs. Already, the dream felt less solid. The sheets still smelled like Ed, and if Roy switched the light on, he knew he’d see the translucent marks of automail oil on the pillow. Roy rubbed a hand over his eyes. These dreams weren't uncommon. Perhaps everyone had them. Certainly, Roy had dreamed his friends dead long before he’d had reason to know how it really felt. These days, it was usually Riza dead in his dreams. Sometimes his mother, his sisters. A couple of times it had been Havoc. Never before Ed, though.

 _It could happen_ , his bastard brain pointed out to him. _The dream is a lie, until the day it isn’t. It could happen very easily_. To Ed, to any of his people.

They weren’t really _his_ people, though, were they? They belonged to themselves. And no matter what he told them about dying, there was little enough he could do to stop them doing it.

Roy thought of Ed and his brother, all those miles out west, breaking into a house where terrible things were being done. He wished he could have gone himself. He wondered again whether there could have been a way to get a larger party there, without compromising the stealth needed to catch Chrysalis unawares. It had been a risk; but a risk that even Riza had approved. And there could have been no better choice for this mission than Fullmetal and Bridgewire. Every time he reconsidered it, he knew he’d made the right call. But still.

He put his hand into the cat's fur. It stretched, purred like an engine, and rubbed its head against his wrist. Roy scratched it behind the ear, and was glad it was there.

***

Ed reached the start of the steep bank leading up to the railway tracks, and just carried on running. He planted one foot after the other in the dry ground and hauled himself up. These were the times when the automail really pulled its weight. His left leg threw up his weight like a piston, and he was at the top even before Al.

The mission was going badly.

It seemed Chrysalis was already on the move, and they were only so sure of where he was heading. They'd know if their information was good once they found him, which wasn't exactly a comforting thought.

“So,” said Al, “you’re the expert at hopping trains.”

“We wait until it slows around the bend here,” Ed said, “then catch ahold of the ladder on the side of the carriage, and get your foot up quick.”

Al nodded, frowning. Ed decided not to share with him any of Darius’ and Heinkel’s stories about the nasty things that could happen to someone trying to hop a moving train.

“So,” Ed said, “we’re doing this, huh?”

“We’ve got to,” Al said. “It’s a risk, but, you know the alternative …”

Ed nodded firmly. The Homunculus was on that train, he was pretty confident about that. Chrysalis was definitely killing people for it: they couldn’t just let them escape. But there was a chance they could be jumping on that train to fight something they couldn’t beat. Which would be - well, a major fucking tactical error. And they had no way of telling if the creature was too strong until they got there.

The train whistle sounded. Al checked his watch, and nodded. This ought to be the 8:36, all right. They better just hope the trains ran on time around these parts.

The house, like all Katzenklavier’s hideouts so far, had been a perfect horror movie set: a tall old place with a neglected garden, two hundred years old at least. Inside, it had proved deserted apart from three guys hurriedly emptying any signs of occupation into canvas sacks. It had taken Ed and Al moments to take them down, and moments more to elicit information with little more than glares and cracking of knuckles. Apparently, you just couldn’t get the staff these days.

“It _told him_?” Ed had yelled as they ran for the station. “The fucking Homunculus _told Dr. K we’re here_?”

“It’s met you, remember?” Al had shouted back. “I guess it can recognise people’s _qi_! You know, like Gluttony!”

“That was smell!” Ed said. “He smelled things! Oh, and by the way, it’s fucking talking now!”

“We’re not gonna make the train!” Al shouted, brandishing his pocket watch.

That was when they’d had this dubious idea: intercept the train after it left. Preferably without smashing up either the train or themselves.

The whistle sounded again. The train, finally, rounded its bend. And just like Ed had feared, this was not the local service.

It was a big old engine, solid and hefty - and besides the Amestrian Railway logo on the tank, Ed could see the blue eagle of the Cretan flag. “I told you! The motherfucker’s trying to cross the border!”

“You think that’s why he-?“

“Hold that thought!” Ed yelled. The train was already upon them. Up close, it was moving faster than he thought. Damn, this was going to be tight. He stepped up close enough for the side-wind to buffet his face hard, bent his knees and leapt.

The automail saved him again. His right shoulder pulled like a bastard, but his right hand still kept a perfect grip on the ladder. He got his left foot on a rung, braced himself, then just about managed to get his right up too. His stupid disguise hat tumbled off and blew away, unmourned. As Ed started to climb for the train roof, he saw Al, clinging sideways to the next carriage.

They met on the roof. Al sprang lightly to Ed’s carriage and then crouched low as the train started to pick up speed again. “You think that’s why he was working near the border?” Al yelled.

“Fits the pattern,” Ed yelled back. “That last place he was at was right by the Aerugan border.”

Al nodded grimly, and Ed pulled a wry face. Amestris had centuries of bad blood and border disputes with every one of its immediate neighbours. If Dr. K was willing to cross national borders, it looked like he had rather more loyalty to his life’s work than he did to his State employers. Roy had been disquieted by the hideout on the Aerugan border. He had speculated that Katzenklavier’s fallback plan might even be a full-scale defection. It looked like he had been right to worry.

Ed jerked a thumb downwards. Al nodded. Together, they clapped.

They’d barely hit the floor of the train carriage before Ed knew, without a doubt, that the infant Homunculus was on his train. It was the same feeling he remembered from his encounter with the creature at the Ducal palace, from his meetings with another like it, years ago: that sensation of an off-key _wrongness_ , like static in the air or the smell of an electrical fire.

Ed and Al barely had time to lock eyes and acknowledge what they knew before Ed saw a uniformed guard edging quickly away from them towards the end of the carriage, going for the exit. Shit, he must think they were robbers or terrorists or something.

“It’s cool!” Ed yelled, brandishing his pocket watch. “State Alchemists. I’m Fullmetal, he’s Bridgewire. This is government business.” Which it was, kind of. Ed swallowed hard and hoped this guy wasn't in Hakuro's pocket. That could really fuck with the whole stealth thing.

“There’s … is this …?” the guard managed, gawping at them. Then he seemed to recover himself. “Are you looking for your comrade up in the front carriage?”

“The Chrysalis Alchemist?” Al asked.

“Skinny old guy,” Ed added. Surely he couldn’t be travelling under his own name?

“Yes, sir,” said the guard. “He commandeered the front first class carriage.” Major inter-city trains often had these: a single, luxurious private carriage up front, for high-ranking officers, fat cats and aristocrats who wanted to travel in style.

“Thanks!” said Al brightly. “Listen, we need your help. There’s some dangerous, volatile material on this train, and it’s not safe for the passengers or crew to be here while we deal with it. We need to get as many of the people on this train to safety. If we got all the passengers back here and decoupled the carriages, do you think you’d be able to signal before there was a crash?”

The guard nodded. “There’s a signal box a couple hundred yards from here, and the next train isn’t due through for a good few minutes. We’d easily have enough time to raise the stop signal.”

“Good,” said Ed, “because that’s what you’re going to have to do.”

The silver watch’s power to persuade was a little unnerving sometimes: the guard seemed to trust Ed and Al implicitly, just like that. It gave Ed the same uncomfortable feeling that it did when people waved him ahead in a line because he was in uniform. Ed wasn’t a soldier. Except that he was.

It took a couple of minutes to get to the mostly-empty first class carriages. The guard and the colleagues he’d mustered dealt with it like pros, moving from one closed compartment to the next, murmuring discreetly to passengers, helping retrieve luggage and herding the passengers quietly through to the rear carriages. It was a little disquieting that nothing dramatic had happened yet; but at this point, he and Al could only press forward.

Ed and Al watched the last of them, a thin old lady, shuffle her way out of the carriage on the arm of the guard. She was talking to him firmly in a reedy, posh voice. Ed caught something about a strongly worded letter to Head Office. The guard turned back and nodded to them. A moment later, two other guards knelt at the doorway between the carriages, and busied themselves with the coupler.

The carriages unhooked and came free with a loud metallic screech. The guards, along with the rest of the train, started to rapidly recede down the track, framed in the open door. Dr. K must have heard that. Ed and Al looked at each other, and marched quickly down the carriage. The next car was the one. The feeling of the Homunuculus’ presence boiled stronger with every step. Ed remembered from the Ducal Palace too: back then, the infant creature’s presence had been so raw it was difficult to be around, let alone fight. Well, he was just going to have to suck it up. And hey - if it was raw, it wasn’t cooked. The feeling was definitely a lot less strong than before - but that it still felt bad at all could be good news if it meant it was small enough to take.

Al put his hand to Ed’s arm and said quietly, “You know, if I’m right and that’s how the Homunculus recognised us -“

Ed nodded. “Then it knows we’re here.”

Al put his hand to the door, and wrenched it open. Ed ducked under his arm and sprinted through. Another step into the carriage, and even as he looked around, he automatically clapped out a blade from his arm.

Katzenklavier was standing already, one hand gripping a table and the other fumbling in a leather box. He glanced up at Ed and Al for only a fractional moment. The creature didn't seem to be making him sick. Ed was on him in no time at all. His left arm went around Katzenklavier’s neck from behind. “Don’t struggle, it’s smarter,” he said. The guy felt bird-boned and frail. The Homunculus’ presence was a miasma around them.

“Get the box!” he shouted to Al. Katzenklavier’s hands were still fumbling in it, working - of course - at the edge of the seal on the glass jar within. Ed circled his skinny wrist with his right hand - Katzenklavier made a hissing noise - and Ed pulled as he stepped back -

Ed heard a loud, musical popping sound. The big, flat cork seal was loose in Katzenklavier’s hands. Ed’s insides jerked with shock, his eyes flicked to the jar in the box. A black cloud, shifting like an animal. The blue crackle of Al’s transmutation hit it in a moment, the jar curved to seal itself -

The creature went straight for Ed’s face.

Ed tried to cry out and choked. His nose and mouth were sealed, his eyes were covered. He staggered back and got his hands on it. The not-skin of the creature felt grating and weird, like cotton wool. He felt it pushing at his lips, so clamped his mouth shut. Distantly, he heard Al yelling “Brother! Brother!” Then, so suddenly, it seemed to let go, came away easily, two handfuls of grating static electricity in his hands. As Ed gasped in air and tried to confirm the fucker hadn’t bitten his nose off, an iron-hard tentacle wound around his upper arm. It pulled itself from his hands with utter ease - it must have let go of him deliberately - and flowed up to his left arm.

Another wave of nausea hit him. This one was so bad the room’s gravity seemed to shift and spin. A white slit opened in the prickling cloud. It was an eye. It slowly turned to look at him.

Ed tried to yell and managed a creak. His back hit the shuddering wall of the carriage. His arm felt leaden. _Punch it with the automail, fucker, punch it in the kisser -_

Something warned Ed to look up. Where was Katzenklavier? Ed managed to focus his eyes, to talk a breath and look. The old man was over the other side of the room now, and Ed saw that he was reaching into his jacket -

“Al!” Ed yelled. Al clapped, he must have seen already, and the tabletop wrenched itself free and hardened to a shield on Al’s arm. The leather box fell to the floor, and Ed heard glass shatter - a shot went off half a moment later, but Al’s shield held, and he was moving forward in a crouch -

Ed’s elbow fucking _hurt_. He felt something sharp through the waves of nausea. He looked down. The thing was latched on to his arm. The little Homunculus was thick and dark. The parts making contact with Ed’s arm felt solid, but its edges looked crystalline-cloudy, like magnetised iron filings. _Surviving out of its jar_ , Ed thought. _Souls_. Deep inside that thing, people were tormented and lost. Ed turned his arm. A black fang or spur or _something_ was sunk into the inside of his elbow. _Shit._

Ed shook his arm experimentally. He could barely lift it. The thing was heavy, and its grip was cutting off the flow of blood to his forearm. Ed heard gunshots, and his head jerked up to see Al still advancing on Dr. K under cover of his improvised shield. The old bastard looked terrified.

Al caught his eye. “I got it, I’m fine! Look after yourself first!”

Okay, Ed thought, _on three_. He counted in his head and hauled in a breath. Automail over, clap, a diamond-hard carbon shell on his arm, then a sharp chop right into the vile centre of the creature -

\- An electric-shock feeling ran right into his right shoulder. Ed hissed and tried to pull his arm away. The creature stretched out thin paws and wound them around his wrist.

Suddenly, there was a grin above the eye. It opened wide. “You,” it said - _fuck, it_ is _talking_ \- “your blood is full of meat.” Scratchy and polyphonic: like Pride, like Father.

“What?” said Ed. The eye was watchful. The mouth didn’t answer. He glanced over to Al - still advancing. Katzenklavier was an idiot when it came to combat, he realised. All he had to do was swing the gun to cover Ed, and they had a problem. But instead he was panicking.

The Homunculus might be strong, but they could win this.

Ed yanked hard, and there was more electric shock, and then suddenly he was on his knees, grappling with the creature.

The creature’s limbs lost hold. Its eye winked shut and tiny, impotent claws flexed as Ed managed finally to yank his automail arm away. A wave of dizziness hit. The nausea was getting worse. Ed’s heart hammered against his ribcage. He drew another breath, and slammed his left arm at the wall: a weak swing that did nothing.

Then, abruptly, he recognised what he was feeling: the dizziness, the rapid pulse, the fuzziness and slowness. Blood loss. It was sucking his fucking blood.

“No you _fucking don’t_!” he spat, calling up the energy of his anger. “I beat down your fuckin’ grandad, you little tadpole fucker bastard, you think you can vampire me to death?” He slapped his automail hand against his limp left palm, smacked it back into the wall, and let claws of metal spring out from the wall to hook the Homunculus. Amazingly, the suction on his elbow didn’t even let off. He dropped his knees and tried to roll. The creature made a scratchy noise, and wound possessive new arms around Ed’s elbow, and tightened hard until his shoulder pulled hard and the creature’s grip was the only thing holding Ed up.

Ed gritted his teeth - and then a metal fist popped out of the wall to slam the creature left, then another on the other side mashed it right.

He looked up. Al had Katzenklavier’s gun in one hand, thank fuck.

They could do this.

Ed felt the grip on his arm weaken a little. He felt the moment, kicked out his leg against the wall, and rolled sideways hard. The grip gave abruptly - blood sprayed - and he was free. He rolled a few feet, then tried to haul himself up. His head felt empty and buzzing. How much blood had he even lost?

***

Al’s heart drummed against his breastbone, painful and distracting. The creature crawled across the upholstery of a bench, its stubby, provisional limbs groping and retracting. Al kept his fighting stance, ignored the burning nausea in his throat. “Brother?” he said carefully.

“Gimme a minute,” said Ed, quiet and slurred. He was curled in on himself, his face colourless, automail hand pressed hard against the inside of his left elbow. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Al turned back to Katzenklavier. He clapped at his shield, and it flowed to shackle the old man’s wrists apart. He hissed.

Something screeched. At first, Al thought it was the train itself, but then he looked at Katzenklavier, and saw that he was smiling. The screech sounded again. It lowered itself into a many-voiced howl.

The Homunculus’ mouth was open. Its eye rolled like a panicked horse. Again, it cried. A dozen little limbs popped out, and beat upon the seat pathetically. “I’m hungry!” it said. “I’m hungry, I’m scared, I hate it, I want to go home.” It flailed new limbs, and opened another mouth, which howled too.

Al snorted. He tapped his fingers together and hit the wall, let the transmutation run down to the shattered glass jar, knit it whole.

The seat cushions were slashed from the little Homunculus’ flailing. Al crouched and concentrated on the jar, sized up the distance.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Katzenklavier, still smiling.

“Shut up,” said Al, and clapped. The glass flowed over the creature into a dome. It raised stubby paws to tap at the glass, then flowed around it, butting up against each side. Al clapped again, and got a glass floor under it, sealing the creature in completely. The single eye rolled against the glass. It cried again, the inconsolable wail of a very young thing, dampened and muffled by the glass. Despite himself, Al’s heart was starting to soften. It pulled and pushed more paws against the glass, almost kneading -

The jar exploded, and suddenly the creature was everywhere, its scream was everywhere, the roof of the train slashed open, windows shattered. Al threw himself back against the weight of Ed and covered his eyes. The creature was huge now, like a fusion of spider and spiderweb that spread across the carriage. Scrabbling paws, grinding teeth and darting eyes scattered irregularly along it. The scream rose and fell, rose and fell.

“We won’t hurt you!” Al yelled without thinking. He immediately realised he’d just made a promise he might not be be able to keep.

“They’re liars!” Katzenklavier suddenly shouted. “They’re trying to kill us both. But you’re stronger than they are!”

A claw slashed out at Al from the centre of the room. He dodged it, throwing himself and Ed sideways. He clapped and pulled a curved, carbon-hardened shield out of the train’s wall, leaving a hole gaping and a sharp wind howling through the carriage. He braced his arms against it, moving it this way and that as the creature flailed at them.

Ed nudged him with a shoulder. “Try closing my arm,” Ed muttered. “Stop the blood, I can still fight. ”

“No _way_ ,” said Al. Last time he’d tried medical rentanjutsu, it had been on a chunk of pork belly. Which had promptly exploded and shot hot fat in his face.

“Fine,” said Ed. While Al continued to work the shield, he pulled his automail arm away and tapped his hands together. Ed’s sleeve tightened in a band. He hissed, then tried to get his feet under him. Al felt him stumble.

The claws struck again. Al’s mind worked as he wielded the shield and his shoulders jerked with impact after impact. Defeating the creature now would take the tactics needed for an adult homunculus. It would have to be worn down - to be blasted with lethal force, again and again and again. The driver and crew were still up front of the train. What must they be thinking right now? Could Al separate the carriage? Could he get to them and get them to cut it loose? No, he couldn’t leave Brother. Ed had seemingly given up trying to get his footing. Instead he knelt against Al, conserving his energy. Wait, could Al sever the connection with a transmutation?

It wasn’t going to be easy. The train was moving and it was off the ground, two things that made distance transmutation a lot tougher for a novice. And the Homunculus was everywhere … Al clapped. He tried to breathe easy, to let go of the effort let his mind fall along the line of the energy. A claw snaked around the shield and Al smashed it around. His concentration left him. The claw held. Ed hacked at it clumsily with the automail blade.

“Careful!” Al hissed. The little paw severed and crumbled. Al tried the transmutation again. This time the thing lifted the shield bodily into the air. Al saw another appendage trying to pass under it - and this one had a sharp-toothed mouth on it. Ed clapped, and a hand of carbon-shielded metal rose up from the floor to slap the limb back. Al’s legs swung in the air. He used the momentum, dropped back behind Ed, clapped as he fell and peeled the floor back to make another shield.

Ed was on his hands and knees, sweat broken out on his forehead. “Get back into the next carriage!” Al hissed.

Ed shook his head. “You can’t take it down by yourself, not like this.”

“You can’t help me take it down! Move! Come on, we need to get back behind the door!”

At that ‘we’, Ed consented. He staggered up and hauled himself into the other carriage. Al followed him in, wielding his shield. His arms were starting to shake with the effort of holding it up. As soon as they were both in, he clapped again, smoothing out the whole front of the carriage and wrapping it in carbon.

“Okay,” he said, dropping to the floor next to Ed. “Thinking space.”

“We can’t let it get to Creta,” said Ed.

On that, a thin tentacle lashed through the side of the carriage and receded, taking out a window with it. Then he spotted something. “ _Shit_ ,” he said, sprinting down the carriage. He threw open the rear door and looked out. “That’s Mount Olias! Brother, we’re over the border.”

Ed groaned and shoved a hand through his hair. The carriage lashed from side to side again. “How is it this strong?” Ed said. “Fuck, no wonder the Xerxeans tried to keep it small.”

“Okay, now what?” said Al. He clenched his fists and tried to string together what they'd just learned. “Look - Brother. I don’t know if I _can_ beat this thing solo. And look at this. He’s in Creta now. Cretan alchemy is a dying form. Katzenklavier’s not going to be able to get supplies. And more to the point” - the carriage veered to the right as the creature hit it again - “more to the point, he can’t control it anymore. Without the facilities to restrain it, I can’t see him feeding it more souls.”

Ed nodded. “Okay,” he said, “point taken. But let’s give this one last shot. How ‘bout we run over the top of the train, try to cut it off from the engine, and -“ The whole train screeched. It veered fast to the right, to the left - “Shit, it’s gonna go over -“ Ed yelled.

There was a horrible, metallic screech. Al and Ed braced themselves. The train rocked, and righted itself, and slowed, and - Al pulled himself up, retracted the carbon shield from part of the car door.

The half-wrecked front carriage was already a hundred yards up the track in front of them. Tendrils of Homunculus still flailed from the sides, the back, the roof. Cut off, their carriage was slowing.

They were not going to catch it up.

Ed got upright and stared. “You think it's skewered Dr. K?” he said weakly.

Al looked at the train. “But then - it’d be out there alone. That’s bad. We should -“

In the distance ahead, the train flashed with alchemic energy, and the hole in the roof was suddenly gone.

“Looks like he made it,” Ed said sourly. “Ugh. What a clusterfuck.”

“How are you doing?” Al looked at Ed, evaluating. He was pale and sweaty, breathing too fast.

Ed shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

Al laughed shortly. “Me too. I’m taking you to the hospital, you know. Once we get over the border.”

Ed just nodded. “And we should … call in. As soon as we get to a phone.” He hauled himself up the wall, then leaned there looking ill for a few moments. Al offered him an arm and he took it silently, and together they managed to negotiate the steps down the carriage.

Once they were clear of the train, Ed nodded at it. “We need to get that off the track, before the next train crashes straight into it.”

“I got this one.” Al let go of Ed, clapped, dropped his hand to the ground - _plenty of limestone, recrystallise it into marble_ \- and sent up a big, deep spar jutting out the bank. When he rolled the train carriage onto it, the whole hillside reverberated.

They made their way slowly towards the village they could see further down the valley. With any luck, there’d be someone there with a car. Despite the horrible relations between Creta and Amestris, in Al’s experience people in Western border towns crossed the frontier daily and casually.

With the immediate danger gone, their energy levels slumped hard. Al felt aching and exhausted. Ed, on the other hand, sat to rest, and panted, and looked half-conscious. Al looked at him and knelt in front, pulling Ed’s arms around his neck. “Uh,” said Ed, but let him. Al grabbed his legs and hefted Ed into a piggyback, automail and all. He just about managed to stand. The village wasn’t far. It would be fine. Ed groaned against his shoulder, and shifted, reassuringly disgruntled and vital. "Fuck," he muttered, "Fuck. Sorry to …"

"It's okay," said Al. Then, truthfully, "I'm used to it. Only now you're heavier." Now Ed was a warm, awkward burden, and Al's muscles strained. Back then, he'd felt like nothing: just a push of resistance against the shells of Al's legs, a weight he'd felt only from how it rendered Al suddenly top-heavy, a smear of red on his chestplate that he'd spotted with a shock. Back then, Ed had bled, and Al had watched, and carried him.

"It was worse," muttered Ed; and then he passed out, head rolling against Al's , before he could clarify.


	8. The Home Front

On Sunday morning, ten minutes before his alarm clock was set to ring, the telephone woke Roy up. He was still mostly asleep when, having stumbled out to the hall, he picked up the receiver and muttered, “Mustang.”

“Brigadier General?” It was Alphonse Elric, and something was wrong in his voice. Adrenaline shocked Roy instantly awake.

“Bridgewire.”

"I'm fine, he's fine," said Alphonse quickly.

Roy exhaled. There followed a short pause. After a moment, through his singing relief, Roy registered the informal tone and the protocol breach. “Ah,” he managed. “Good. I’m glad to hear it, Major.”

There was another awkward pause. Bustling background noise filtered through from Alphonse’s end of the line. Someone was speaking through a crackling public address system. What were they doing at such a big railway station? Then Roy caught, _please report to Bauer Ward, could Dr. Cooper -_

“You’re in a hospital?”

“Yes,” said Alphonse. “Don’t w- uh - it’s not serious, sir.”

“What condition are you in?”

“I’m not injured. Brother lost some blood. But that’s all.”

Roy held the phone receiver away from his mouth for a moment while he exhaled, and took another deeper breath in. Then he just said, “Good. For the rest, we need to debrief _elsewhere_ , Bridgewire. Call me there in thirty minutes.” Ed and Al knew which box to call.

He’d have to wait those unpleasant few minutes, until he was on a safe line, to find out how the mission had gone, what had become of Chrysalis and his creature. But he already knew it had not gone well.

***

All that morning, Havoc noted, Fuery seemed to be jogging back and forth from the kitchen with the coffeepot. Everyone seemed to want constant refills. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world for this shit.

“You know,” said Havoc, as Fuery poured him his third refill, “you don’t have to do that now. You got yourself to the dizzy heights of Second Lieutenant. Perks of rank, you get to palm off the crapwork people used to palm off onto you.”

Fuery cast a glance over to the empty desk of Havoc’s secretary, Addison. Back when he’d first rejoined the team, after being assigned a secretary whose _specific job_ it was to do his crapwork, the power had gone slightly to Havoc’s head. Noticing that Addison preferred to get his lunch from a sandwich shop near HQ, Havoc had almost immediately decided that one of Sergeant Addison’s jobs would be to grab him a sandwich while he was there. It had seemed an excellent idea at first: Havoc got to avoid both Central HQ’s impressively vile mess food and the daily irritation of negotiating the packed mess hall in the chair - without dealing with lunch hour street traffic either. The system, however, was quickly abused. Breda and Rebecca were soon giving Addison entire lunch _and_ coffee orders 'since he was going out anyway'. Mustang, never slow to spot an opportunity, soon added his order. This was the cue for a general Team Mustang sandwich ordering free-for-all. Finally, Addison, on the verge of mutiny from spending lunchtimes lugging a sack of sandwiches and a large tray of coffees, managed to find another sandwich shop that would just deliver.

Happy days, huh? Hard to believe it was only eighteen months ago. They’d been aiming to defeat Hakuro and the old guard the civilised way, with close to no bloodshed - and for a while there, it seemed like they’d get that. There’d seemed like so much time to kid around, to sweat the small stuff. Havoc had been riding the high of being back in the army, freshly independent, staying in a plush hotel on the military’s cen while he got his new flat fixed up, and dating a sexy, sophisticated girl who made him laugh. Maybe he had the old rose-tinted glasses on, but it seemed like back then, most of his worries had been more hopeful worries: _I need to hire new builders, how do I not screw up this relationship, will the President of Weaver Industries think I’m a hick?_

And now? All that good stuff was still there in his own life. But the hope that they could get to the future without blood? That was clean gone. Their options seemed to be bloody revolution or a bloody civil war: and the opposition were toting a weapon that could take out a whole nation if you grew it big enough. If you’ve got it, you can lose it, and the whole country - the whole world, even - could be about to lose.

Fuery hovered with the pot and smiled at Havoc, embarrassed. He leaned in. “To tell you the truth, I’m just keeping busy. I came in when Breda told me, but there isn’t much for me to do 'round here yet.”

“You’re too nice, buddy. You could head home, we could call you in later.”

Fuery just shrugged. “Thanks, really, Captain. But no. I’d rather be here. You know?” With another apologetic grin, he hefted the coffeepot and headed onto the next desk, and the next empty mug.

At eleven hundred hours, Mustang and Havoc were debriefing the details of the Elrics’ mission. The details were not good. “I understand,” Mustang said, “that Bridgewire bullshitted their way to a lift from a farm truck into Amestrian territory. Told the driver they’d been in a train wreck.”

“And they’re fine?”

“Yes. Fullmetal got a blood transfusion, and he’s sleeping it off.”

Havoc nodded slowly.

“Stop that,” Mustang said. “You have nothing to rebuke yourself for. It was a solid piece of intelligence work. Things just went wrong in the field, that’s all.”

 _Things went wrong in the field._ That happened. Havoc scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m not. It’s just -“ He shrugged. Mustang had known Ed and Al as long as he had, it wasn’t like there was a difference there. It was just - he’d watched the Elric brothers grow up. Maybe it was because they were Eastern boys, because they talked like he did and knew how to trap a rabbit and row a boat - but they’d always felt like his smart-ass little cousins.

Mustang filled the silence. “Sending people into danger, into battle. It’s never -“ he shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like doing it either.”

Havoc grinned at him with one side of his mouth. “Thanks, chief. But I already knew you were a sap.”

1348 hours brought some sorely-needed good news. Breda returned from the records room, pulled a note from the borrowed file he was carrying, rapidly scanned it, then disappeared into the conference room with Mustang. A couple of minutes later, the rest of them were called in.

“So, looks like you got a note-passin’ contact in Investigations, hey, guy?” said Rebecca on the way into the room. Apparently, not even the threat of apocalypse could stop her sniffing out dish.

Breda stuck his hands in his pockets and didn’t reply.

“Half of Investigations are in the office cranking out briefings on the Cretan situation,” Breda said to the room at large. “We’ve got confirmation: Hakuro knows Chrysalis is in Creta, and he’s trying to track him down.”

The anxious half-frown Mustang had been wearing all morning had given place to a small but discernable smirk. “He had his top man in alchemical weapons in hiding on the Cretan border,” Mustang said, “and _now_ he needs the inside scoop on Cretan relations. This is the quality of mind we’re up against.”

“We’ve chased him out of two hideouts now," said Hawkeye. "In Central and on the Aerugan border. We had him on the ropes.” Here was Mustang’s smirk, like always, and here was Hawkeye ignoring the smirk, like always. The tense air of emergency lifted a little. Did they know how much the mood of the team rose and fell with theirs? Probably.

Hawkeye continued. “Aerugo would have welcomed a defector. Creta, on the other hand - they’re thoroughly suspicious of alchemy, and at the moment, they’re getting more isolationist by the month.”

“For instance,” Mustang cut in smoothly, weighing his pen between finger and thumb, “I hear they’ve shut down the telephone exchange with Amestris.”

Havoc leaned forward and propped his chin on one hand, thinking it through. “But,” he said, “we can’t totally close that border, right? It’s in the mountains, it is how it is. All we can do is police the train route.”

“We can get people in Papenburg watching out discreetly,” Miles pointed out. “In my opinion, the more immediate worry is what happens if Chrysalis _does_ manage to defect to Creta. He’d be the only national-standard alchemist in the whole country, am I right?” Mustang and Hawkeye both nodded. “The Cretans hardly even have laws against taboo transmutation. They may be suspicious of alchemy, but they also don’t have any real understanding of alchemical crime. They’re not going to recognise the dangerous stuff when they see it. And meanwhile Chrysalis has a long and consistent m.o. of creating highly dangerous alchemical weapons by means of torturing people to death.”

The tension in the room weighed down once more. Mustang said, “That’s true too. The more hopeful angle is that Bridgewire reports that the Homunculus is barely controllable in its current state. He’s a lot less _likely_ to feed it, beyond its daily ration of a few drops of blood.”

“But the less hopeful angle,” Hawkeye said, “is the prospect of war. International war.”

Mustang shifted in his seat. “The bottom line,” he said, “is the limits of our intelligence in Creta. In short: we don’t know.”

There was a silence: an unpleasant silence full of questions no one wanted to be the one to voice. Still, someone had to break it. “So,” asked Havoc, “now what do we do?”

What they did, it seemed, was to plan - or rather, to bolster the plans they had already. A coup in a box, Havoc called it: just add water. They had a complete plan for takeover. They would wait only until the first moment the scales of military support tipped towards Mustang’s faction - or until intelligence of Chrysalis made immediate action necessary. Then, the signal to strike would be fired, and wherever they were, they would move.

There was another signal, of course: the signal to retreat. Plans for that had been made more quietly. Havoc had spent the other half of his weekend working on them. In a way, though, it was good to know they were there.

By halfway through the evening, they had a way forward.

And then the day was over, at least for most of them. Havoc rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to wake himself up for the drive home. “Delivery pizza, bath, bed,” said Rebecca, shouldering her bag and stroking his hairline absently with a thumb. Havoc gave her a half-smile. He felt a momentary, odd burst of gratitude for the everyday details of his life: the slow traffic down Jordan Boulevard, sausage pizza eaten out of cardboard on the sofa, a hot shower, Becky fidgeting against him as she tried to get to sleep. For today, there was this.

“See you tomorrow, bright and early,” said Breda, clapping him on the shoulder.

***

It felt weird.

That was Brosch’s first thought, as he reclined on the patient bench of Atelier Garfiel, when the nerves finally connected. Well, the first thought after a few seconds of _owfuckow_. Still, it hadn’t been quite as bad as he’d expected. He supposed this must be a hidden advantage of the last few weeks of automail surgery, recovery from automail surgery, and long train journeys while recovering from automail surgery. His pain thresholds had apparently really gone up.

Ms Rockbell politely ignored his hissing and clenched fists as she briskly checked connections and screwed on plates. When his train got in this morning, he’d asked her one last time if she was sure about taking him on. She and Mr Garfiel had both replied at once, before he’d even gotten to the end of the sentence. Of course they knew what they were doing. Of course they knew the risks of taking a military client from Mustang’s faction right now. When he’d opened his mouth to respond, Mr Garfiel had told him sweetly to shut up, and then offered him a cup of jasmine tea. But truthfully, although he’d felt like he had to offer them every chance to back out, he was utterly grateful that they hadn’t. This was the worst time of all for him to be out of the game, with everything going on. He wasn’t kidding himself about how long it would take him to get back up to a hundred per cent, but surely now he was out of a hospital bed and moving, there’d be something he could do?

Brosch stared at the heavy, elaborate chunk of metal newly locked on to his right thigh. He couldn’t exactly say that it felt like his leg yet. He put a hand to the knee, and felt nothing. Sure, his leg _felt_ like it was there, but then, it had felt like it was there ever since they’d taken it off. He could even move the damn thing, could curl phantom toes, kick out a foot that didn’t exist.

It was an odd sight, the metal foot lying next to his own foot. They were the exact same size and shape. _Exact._ It was as if he was wearing a steel sock. Ms Rockbell had taken about a billion measurements from him, but still, the precision of the match was kind of amazing. There was even that weird little gap he’d always had between his big toe and the rest of his toes. Each automail toe had two little joints to it, and the ankle looked slim and flexible. Despite knowing Major Elric, he’d imagined some clunky, square piece of military hardware. This was so -

His toes curled up.

The automail toes had twitched and curled, right there. The motion looked completely human.

“Great!” said Ms Rockbell.

“I didn’t move it!” said Brosch. “I have no idea what happened.”

“No, no, that was a reflex,” she said. “ _Great_.” She bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet, smiling.

Brosch found himself smiling back. “It looks just like my foot!” he said. Wait, that sounded idiotic.

“It _is_ your foot!” said Ms Rockbell.

“No,” he said, “I mean, you got it all just right. It’s amazing.” She smiled at him and her whole face seemed to go bright and sparkly. “It doesn’t look how I was expecting at all!” It was weird. Just yesterday, he’d been thinking, in the Rush Valley heat, how he was going to miss wearing sandals when he had an automail foot to hide. Now, he was starting to think he kind of wanted to show it to his buddies.

“Okay,” she said. “Now, close your eyes, and point your toes for me. Both pairs.”

Brosch did as he was told. He felt his real foot and his imaginary foot point their toes together, and felt ridiculous feeling it. “Great!” he heard. “You’re doing fine. Now back! Now again!” He did it again, or imagined it again. Maybe she was just humouring him?

Soon Ms Rockbell had him in a weird rhythm, pointing the toes of his good foot up and down, and talking himself into thinking he was doing the same with his missing foot. After a couple of minutes, she stopped him. “Okay, now do the same, and in a moment, I’m going to come around and cover your eyes with my hands.”

He did so. Her hands were small and cool over his eyelids.

“Open your eyes and keep working,” she said. “Up! Point! Up! Point! Good job, keep going!”

Brosch could see nothing at first except vague fragments of the room through the gaps between her fingers. But then, she moved them slightly, and he couldn’t resist trying to look. And there - there was the automail foot, pointing and flexing. Shaky and stiff, for sure, but in the same rhythm as his good foot.

“It’s moving!” said Brosch.

“I know it is,” said Ms Rockbell. She pulled away her hands. Brosch told his foot fiercely to keep going. He concentrated hard on the movement -

The automail foot stopped.

“Oh,” said Brosch.

“You thought about it!” said Ms Rockbell. “Right?” Then she gave him a lovely big smile. “Don’t worry. Everyone goes through this part. You have to learn to use it without thinking about it, just like you do the rest of your body. But you’ve already seen your leg works now, right? All you have to do is get the hang of it.”

“By not thinking about it?” asked Brosch.

“You got it!” She gave him a little finger point.

He stared again at his new leg. This time, he checked out the knee joint, the polished, weighty curve of the cap, and the neat and clever fit of the jointure. He might like it. He might, if one day he ever got over the weirdness, really it. “This leg,” he said, “is just _sweet_. I bet Major Elric wasn’t kidding about your wait-list.”

For a moment, Ms Rockbell looked almost embarrassed, and Brosch swore she was flushing. Then, “Okay!” she said. “Now, let’s get you on your feet.”

“Today?” Brosch said.

“Sooner the better!” said Ms Rockbell brightly. As she went to retrieve Brosch’s crutches, he swung himself around off the patient bench - and the weight of his new leg very nearly pitched him onto the floor.

When he swung himself up on the crutches, he nearly went down again. The leg, of course, refused to bend when he told it to, refused to straighten either - refused even to plant its foot on the floor. He settled for standing on his good leg and leaning hard on the crutches.

It was a long, embarrassing and painful trip over to the parallel bars. Ms Rockbell just let him make his own way over. Along the way, Brosch changed his mind about the leg for the second time in ten minutes. Right this second, he couldn’t stand the awkward bastard thing.

Here were the parallel bars. He straightened and transferred most of his weight onto his good leg. Ms Rockbell was there to take the crutches from him one at a time: leaving him stranded, nervous and very possibly about to faceplant. He looked at her expectantly.

“Just walk on it,” she said. “You know how to walk, right?” Brosch nodded. “Just do the same as always. You saw before, the trick is not to think about it!”

Brosch sucked in a breath and nodded. The automail leg still wasn’t co-operating, so he leaned up to one side to plant it on the floor. Then he was standing on it! Standing on two legs! _Great_ , he thought. Then a stab of nerve pain hit right the way through his leg, so harsh that he hissed and grit his teeth. The locked knee jerked and kicked without his permission, and he abruptly lost his balance. He ended up scrabbling for balance with his good foot, while clinging to the bars as if they were saving him from drowning.

He’d been warned, and it was true: automail rehab did a person’s dignity no good.

“I don’t think this is gonna work,” Brosch managed to creak, once the worst of it had passed.

“ _Yes, it is!_ ” barked Ms Rockbell. “ _Stay up there, Warrant Officer! You can do it! Don’t let me down!_ ”

Brosch responded reflexively to the rank and the yelling. He locked his arms on the bars, moved his good leg out further and locked his knee too, and somehow managed to stay upright.

Ms Rockbell, who could apparently shift straight from cheerleader to drill sergeant without blinking, gave him a small, approving nod.

***

The train journey home from Papenburg, inevitably, sucked. At least in this direction, though, they got to go the direct route. And it beat lying around in a hospital bed licking his wounds. Ed hated that. Being on the move, going anywhere, felt better.

He was travel-sick half the journey before he finally managed to get to sleep. He awoke, tired and cranky with a crick in his neck, just as the suburbs of Central started to rush past the train window.

Al squeezed his shoulder as they went to disembark; Ed gave him a half-grin in return, aiming for reassuring. It was a setback, Ed thought to himself as they navigated the evening throng on the concourse. All right, so it was a major setback, but they’d just have to find another way. Hadn’t he and Al had enough of these moments, back when they were looking for the Stone?

“I’m bushed. Let’s just get a cab home,” Al said, turning them left towards the taxi rank and not right towards the metro station. The excuse was transparent; he was coddling Ed because he was injured. But still, Ed didn’t exactly love the thought of standing in a packed, airless metro carriage for the twenty minutes it would take to get to their flat in the university quarter. He accepted the gesture without comment.

The line for cabs was long; but as they tramped to its back, something caught Ed’s eye. He stopped short, then grabbed Al’s arm to stop him short too.

Roy’s car was right opposite the taxi rank.

As they crossed the street, Roy looked up from his newspaper and gave them one of his poker-face unreadable looks. Ed’s entire insides slid around a bit. _Still travel-sick_ , he thought reflexively. But, no: it wasn’t that. It was the other thing.

Ed hesitated for a moment between the car’s front passenger door and the back. Then he wrenched open the back, shoved his suitcase in and hopped in after it. Al followed, and as soon as he’d closed the door, Roy started up the car.

“So,” Ed said, “you guessed we’d get a cab, huh?”

Roy’s eyes flicked to his through the rear view mirror. Ed’s insides did that thing again. “I told Bridgewire he should make sure you got a cab. Report?”

Al shifted in his seat, then pulled several sheets of paper from his inside pocket. “We wrote this up on the train, sir.” In Ed’s code, of course. “It’s pretty much what I told you yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” Ed cut in. “The whole thing sucked.”

“You both did your best.” Roy’s eyes flicked to them both briefly through the rear view mirror.

They talked around the matter a little on the way to the university quarter. Roy asked a bunch of questions about the creature. He was decent enough not to point out that, had he been able to get there himself, he could have fried it into nothing without breaking a sweat.

“Sir, what about the people Chrysalis murdered for this thing?” Al said. “I mean, I know we need to move, but their families don’t even know if they’re alive or not.”

“It goes on the list,” said Roy grimly. He tapped his forehead with a finger. “The disappeared, the murdered, the forgotten. If - when we win, we’ll make sure that all these crimes are brought out into the light.”

The rest of the short journey was quiet. Tuesday was going to be Al’s office day; there’d be time then for planning, debriefing, more questions, and what answers they could surmise.

Roy parked on Palmer Street, a few doors down from Ed and Al’s place. As Al got out of the car, Roy and Ed’s eyes met again in the rear view mirror, just for a moment. Ed looked out of the car and exchanged a glance with Al. Al picked it up instantly, but still hovered. Ed hopped out of the car. He left his suitcase in the footwell.

“I’m okay,” Ed said quickly to Al. “Are you going to be all right?”

Al gave him a slightly embarrassed smile, then he just clapped Ed on the shoulder and nodded. “I’m just going to take an early night.” Fights still left him overstimulated sometimes, Ed knew.

Ed gave him a brief look of gratitude, then opened the car’s front passenger door and slid into the seat next to Roy. Al waved and walked away.

Roy looked at him, and seemed to be considering saying something, then reconsidering it. _That was kind of awkward_ , Ed considered saying, and didn’t.

“Hello,” said Roy. He looked tired. Ed reached over and squeezed his shoulder for a quick moment.

Roy smiled. “Are you hungry?”

Ed asked his body, and got an emphatic _yes_. “Starving,” he said. He wanted so bad to slide across the seat and bump his leg against Roy’s. He didn’t.

A few blocks later, Roy pulled them up in a side street. Ed gave into himself immediately and slid across to Roy. He went for a shoulder bump, but somehow landed in a kiss.

The kiss turned into kissing, present continuous, with Roy’s hand around his waist and his hands pulling on Roy’s lapels. After a few seconds, they pulled away. Why did touching another person always do this for him: make the bad moments bearable, give him the energy to go on? Ed had never understood it completely, but he felt horribly grateful for it right now.

“Steak,” murmured Roy, pulling away after another long kiss, which had happened as easily as the first. “We have to get out of the car to get steak.” His breath was warm on Ed’s face.

“Steak,” said Ed reverently. They were wading through danger and murder and horror and the prospect of worse - yet still, somehow he couldn’t help but be glad of food and sex and human warmth. “Steak. Fuckin’ A.”

The steakhouse was small. Ed didn’t know it. They didn’t even had a menu: you could have steak and chips or steak and chips. While they waited, Roy hung his suit jacket on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. He looked tired and handsome. Ed had an unbearable itch to reach out and touch his face. He stretched out his right leg instead, tapped his toe against Roy’s instep.

“How’ve you been?” Ed said.

“Working hard. Getting somewhere.” Roy tilted his head.

Ed picked up the signal. “Got it. No shop talk. That’s cool.”

“The prescription for blood loss,” said Roy, “is several days of hearty meals.”

“I know,” Ed said. “A doc told me after the Fifth Lab, I would’ve punched the air if I hadn’t been stuck with hospital food.”

It wasn’t until a waiter was putting two slabs of nearly-raw charred cow in front of them that Ed realised he was kind of on a date. Still, it didn’t matter. He could use this evening, and Roy looked like he could use it. Still, Roy’s timing was kind of amazing. Did a lot of people think, _near death experience, steak_? Sometimes Roy was weird in precisely the same ways Ed was weird.

In the car afterwards, Roy looked at him before he started the engine. “Shall I drop you home?”

Ed looked down, then up again, surprised. “Can I go to yours?”

Roy said quickly, “You’re tired, you’re injured. The meal was just a meal, it’s not an - obligation thing, there’s never an obligation, you know that, it’s a ground rule —“

“I know that, dumbass!” Ed swatted his arm. “I didn’t think that.”

Roy rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had that caught-out look he got when he looked like a dork in public. “I mean it. The steak was just steak, and you must want to sleep.”

“Do you need to sleep? Is it okay with _you_ to go to yours?” Ed peered at Roy.

Roy looked at him, then he grinned with one side of his mouth. “Yes,” he said. “It really is.”

“Good,” said Ed.

The drive to Roy’s was short. Ed dropped his suitcase in the hall, hung up his coat.

Roy turned to him. “Can I get you a glass of wa-“ But Ed was already kissing him. Mostly, it was fun to kiss Roy while he was trying to talk. This time, though, the kiss seemed to change hands halfway through. Ed found himself held in Roy’s arms, hanging on to his shirtfront rather than pulling at it. It wasn’t bad at all, like this, though.

They pulled away for a moment. Again, Ed wanted to put his hand on Roy’s cheek. He pushed his forehead against it instead.

The cat walked past them, casually, with a paper bag over its head.

Roy blinked against Ed’s forehead. “Does he do this sort of thing a lot?”

“Uh, yes. We should probably …”

“Right. Before he suffocates or knocks into something.” Roy made his way over to the cat, and pulled off the bag. The cat sat down and made a pitiful high-pitched noise. “You don’t get food just for being silly,” Roy said.

“I did,” Ed said.

“You didn’t,” Roy said. He didn’t elaborate on why Ed had gotten food.

In the bedroom, they undressed straight away, like the done deal it was, and looked at each other as they did so. Ed slipped his shirt off gingerly around his sore left arm. Roy came up to him, and without saying anything, took his arm up carefully, one hand on his upper arm, one on his wrist. He looked over the dressing on the crook of Ed’s elbow. Then he let go gently and put his hands to Ed’s hips, rubbing his thumbs against Ed’s hipbones while he looked him up and down.

“It’s not that bad,” Ed said, feeling off-kilter. “It’s just a little puncture wound, hardly gonna scar at all. The rest of it’s just scratches. You know how it is in a fight.”

“You lost some blood,” Roy said. He ran his hands lightly over Ed’s shoulder and back. There was something in his eyes Ed had seen there before.

“You worry about everyone,” Ed said. “Sap.”

It was different than usual. Ed was tired after all. Roy was careful and attentive of his injured and uninjured parts alike, and it somehow wasn’t as annoying as Ed would expect that to be. Roy arranged him on the bed, and Ed grinned and wriggled and let himself be arranged. Roy teased him mercilessly, and Ed growled and writhed around and did nothing. Roy relented and sucked him off hard, and Ed curled his toes and wriggled his hips and made noises at the ceiling.

He drifted back down, vaguely headachey, with Roy lying alongside him giving him the smuggest of looks. Ed smiled, then looked down as his hip butted against Roy’s very hard dick. “Can I do something about that?” he said.

Roy smiled and shrugged. “Doesn’t your arm hurt?” he said. “I mean, I can just - I don’t want to -“

“Ugh,” said Ed, “stop it.” He squirmed his way upside down on the bed, leaned over Roy, and stroked and licked him the rest of the way there.

Afterwards, Ed flipped himself around again, and they leaned into each other, breathing deep. “Thanks,” said Roy. “I needed that.”

“Me too,” said Ed.

“You know,” Roy said slowly, “the political situation now, it’s not necessarily as bad as it seems. We have an opportunity. The next few weeks are going to be …” He closed his eyes for a moment, head flopped on Ed’s shoulder. A few seconds later, Ed realised he was already asleep.

In under a minute, Ed followed him.

***

The waiter had leather pants and a full tray of drinks. He sashayed around the table, deposited them person by person, and was gone.

Breda raised his glass. “What a fucking week.”

“That’s the toast?” asked Becky.

“Good toast,” said Havoc.

Miles snorted.

It had, indeed, been a real killer of a week. The provisional government had begun the process of tearing itself apart. Fence-sitters were becoming side-choosers. Throughout the military, schemers were scheming, panickers were panicking, and ordinary joes were wading through enormous piles of paperwork. It said a lot that the Amestrian military couldn’t even fall to pieces without generating a ton of bureaucracy.

And now, on Friday night, when they’d miraculously escaped the office, Breda got to sit at the couple table, alone, sourly watching the newly-minted and the practically-married canoodle. All because he’d managed to start dating a girl who was spying for Team Mustang. Sciezka told him Investigations was practically under lockdown. The two of them were communicating via library books: excellent for secrecy, but a crappy way of catching up with one’s girlfriend. Sort-of girlfriend.

“Now, everyone behave tonight,” said Ross, turning around from the next table. “Remember this is my local. Or it used to be, back when I had a social life.”

Havoc grinned and saluted. At the same time, Rebecca put her hand on her heart and exclaimed, mock-offended, “Who, _us_?”

The lights in the bar lowered. One by one, on the stage, three spotlights winked on. Heels clicking, a figure walked onstage.

***

The woman on the stage wore a bowler hat jammed onto the back of her head, with an extravagant black quiff in front, curling like a comma. Her tailcoat was worn, her shirt was pristine, and her age impossible to determine.

“Good evening, children,” she purred into the microphone.

“Harry Valentina!” exclaimed Fuery in a whisper. He waved his hands discreetly. “Oh my god! I had no idea she was in this! I have all her records!”

“She’s even better live,” Maria whispered back. She hadn’t known that Harry Valentina was hosting this thing either. She was getting woefully behind with cultural goings on.

“Welcome,” said Harry, “to the Little Cat Cabaret! I can see a lot of new faces tonight. Our little show is really drawing the crowds. But that’s all right, though. We like your money. Those of you who haven’t been here before, our cabaret is ordinarily a little … _avant-garde_.” She paused for effect. A few regulars whooped and clapped. “But just for you, though, we’ve kept it cheerful, clean, and patriotic!” She winked at the audience. Her spotlights went out, and at the same time another lit at the back of the stage. Dress uniform, eyepatch, moustache: the figure was smaller, but it was unmistakably King Bradley himself.

There was a whooshing noise: the audience, collectively, sucking in a breath. Maria felt the shock of it herself. You did not do hilarious skits about the Fuhrer. Not unless you were keen on vanishing without trace. You mocked him privately, among your most trusted people. But Bradley was dead. His replacement was dead. There was no standing Fuhrer.

The silence in the audience was crisp.

Into the quiet, the bar’s piano briskly tumbled out the first few bars of the national anthem, then shifted into a jaunty tune.

“Pardon me, sir -” a woman’s voice sang from offstage.

“What?” called Bradley. His voice was a couple of octaves higher than the original, but the boom was right.

“- but your ass is show-ing,” continued the singer.

“What?” called the Bradley impersonator. He leapt around - and his coat skirts twirled in the air to show that the ass of his pants had been neatly cut out.

The piano paused. For a moment, the audience didn’t react. Then, into the silence, Maria started to chuckle. She didn’t mean to be the first. But she couldn’t help herself.

Someone else joined in. A low rumble of laughter travelled around the audience. Someone applauded. Then another someone, and another someone -

The audience was exploding with laughter and applause. Maria still couldn’t stop herself grinning. The joke hadn’t even been that good. It felt like - what was it? It felt like the last day of high school. In her parents’ back garden, when Maria and her friends had made a trashcan bonfire of their schoolbooks and danced around it in a ring. It felt like that.

Maria suddenly realised - she recognised Bradley. She was positive that under the moustache and the blues, he was Claire Borchert, a regular singer here. Well, good for her.

As the applause slowly died down, stage-Bradley did a perfect imitation of the signature regal wave, the jaunty grin. The crowd erupted again, briefly. As the laughter calmed again, the piano started back up.

“Pardon me, sir -” the voice sang again.

***

Well, Breda thought, so far they’d had a takedown of Bradley’s supposed senile years, a skit about the Aerugan border war ceasefire, and a song about the _Central Times_ taking bribes. The latter had involved a bunch of chorus boys in shorts made out of fake hundred cen bills. Now a chorus of Joe and Jane Averages were harmonising about rumours of the old regime’s dabblings with taboo alchemy.

The producers of this show must be insane. Commendably insane, but still.

“… And no one knows what the hell is going onnnn -“ sung the chorus. Then an offstage drumroll cut them off.

“Fear not!” A loud voice rang out. A spotlight swung around. And onto the stage strode a figure in blue.

A very small figure.

They were up close enough to see that she must have been five foot nothing in her socks. She was wearing a sexified version of military blues: knee-high black boots, tight trousers, cavalry skirt and jacket. Over it all was a long black coat, shrugged over her shoulders like a cape, and billowing out behind her dramatically with every stride.

Two paces behind, strode a beautiful, big-eyed blonde girl, in the same sexy-army get up, hair scraped back into a high bun.

Hand on one hip, stage-Roy struck a heroic pose, fingers poised to snap. “Fear not, citizens! The revolution is here! Well, nearly here.” He turned to the girl behind him and stage-whispered. “Lieutenant, how’s my hair?”

There was a moderate burst of laughter and applause from around the audience, a few stray whistles.

Team Mustang, on the other hand, were utterly helpless. Havoc cackled, Miles chuckled, Fuery turned red as a beet and snickered uncontrollably. Riza’s poker face held out for a few moments, but then even she started silently giggling.

“What’s so funny?” called stage-Roy, waving a hand to their tables.

Through his guffaws, Breda attempted to croak something like “jacket - cape," but nobody else sitting there was in any condition to respond.

***

***

_To be continued!_


	9. Charm Offensive

Ordinarily, Ed wasn’t much on cabaret. However, this? This was worth triple the ticket price. 

“Riza’s furious that she doesn’t have any lines,” said Roy as they negotiated the interval crowd at the bar. “I always thought she liked not having a public profile.”

“Does she know about us?” said Ed, then instantly regretted it. Roy looked thrown. Total non-sequitur. Also, _us_. Sounded weird. 

“She’s” - Roy scrunched his nose for a moment - “let me know that she’s staying well out of it. You know that she wasn’t exactly delighted when you and your brother re-enlisted?”

Ed shrugged, not liking the direction this conversation was heading. Then, thankfully, Roy managed to catch the bartender’s eye, and he was ordering, and there was a chance to change the subject. “You look good as a tiny, skinny chick,” he said. 

Roy grinned, unperturbed, and passed Ed a glass of beer. “She’s cute,” he said. “I’m extremely comfortable with that casting decision.” He was wearing a suit with no tie; the effect was distractingly hot. 

“How come you wear your coat like a cape, anyway?” said Ed. “Didn’t you grow out of the magician phase?”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable way to wear it,” said Roy. “It’s midway between wearing a coat and not. You know, if it’s too cold to go without a coat, but a bit too hot to wear it closed?”

“So wear it open.”

“It’s a perfectly acceptable way to wear a coat!” They weaved their way through the crowd towards a clear space to stand. “That I get my personal style satirised in a stage show only goes to show that I have style in the first place.” 

“I stopped wearing my coat like a cape when I was six,” Ed said. 

“Let’s talk about your dress sense, then, shall we?” Roy tapped a finger against Ed’s skull belt buckle. “I mean, it _is_ impeccable.”

“Well, apparently, getting my personal style satirised by some smug ass only shows I _have_ style,” Ed said airily. 

Roy raised his beer glass and grinned. “So, are you disappointed this show didn’t have a tiny, singing blonde girl being you in black leather?”

Any response to that would have just encouraged Roy. So Ed just gave him a dry look, which seemed to encourage him anyway.

Roy had declared he wanted to see this show the night after his team gave him their reviews, but in the end, it had taken him two weeks to find an evening when he was out of work early enough. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, what with everything going on right now. Roy worked late every evening; his and Ed’s non-relationship was increasingly conducted at weird hours of the night and morning. Meanwhile, as Team Mustang worked their asses off and trod on eggshells around headquarters, the show had sold out every night, and made the papers, and made the radio, and been talked about in every cafe Ed walked into. And now, tonight, it had moved from a tiny gay bar to one of the biggest theatres in Central. 

Finally, after Roy had nearly fallen asleep twice during a team briefing, Hawkeye had pulled him to one side and ordered him to take Friday night and Saturday off. And here Ed was with Roy, out of the apartment, wearing all their clothes, on a Saturday night no less. Was it breaking any of their non-relationship relationship rules? Ed couldn’t tell. 

“Uh,” Ed said, gesturing vaguely with his beer bottle, “this is fine, right?” 

“It’s fine with me,” Roy said, catching his meaning, “I like your company.” Honest and easy, no embarrassment: there was something about the way he could just come out with this stuff that made Ed feel young and stupid. 

“Al says that we’re having an affair,” Ed said. He scrunched up his nose. “I kind of hate that word, affair. Sounds like someone’s cheating on someone.”

Roy cocked his head. “I think that’s sort of appropriate. I mean, we both have a prior commitment to our work. And we have this on the side.”

“You’re cheating on your work with me?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, that’s weird.” And it was, like Roy was betraying his work, like he should give it everything he had. “You can’t work the whole damn time.”

Roy gestured with his beer at the theatre around them. 

Ed snorted, but not with much malice. “Yeah, big whoop. You’re at the theatre. Watching a political satire revue, checking out if you or Hakuro got more of a hatchet job -“

“-It’s him, by the way-”

“- And seeing if you think the show’s going to get censored or not.”

“You know,” Roy said, “my mother used to be in cabaret, when she was young. She wrote a show which had one single, mild innuendo about Bradley, and the censors killed the whole show. She ended up in debt, and she was lucky she didn’t end up in jail. This show, on the other hand, has a Bradley impersonator with the ass cut out of her pants. It openly mocks the last two Fuhrers, the provisional government, and the whole notion of military rule. I mean, you do realise how revolutionary this is, right?”

“I dunno,” Ed said. “Things have changed a lot in the last couple of years -” 

“I _have_ noticed -“

“- I was going to say, you should _know_ how much satire’s going round in the press these days, it’s all on your toilet tank so you can flip through it and see if they mention you.”

“Well, you know, _the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about._ ” Roy exhaled, and then suddenly most of the humour dropped from his face. “But the revolution isn’t here yet. They’re taking a huge risk: the people who put this on, the people who put out that magazine, who make jokes on the radio. It’s been two years since the last political arrest - but not one official policy has changed. We’re still officially a military dictatorship. There’s a lot the public doesn’t know about how this government works.”

“It doesn’t work,” said Ed. 

“That part they’ve noticed,” said Roy.

***

On Tuesday, the summer weather turned so thickly humid that opening windows barely made a difference.

“And of course, especially in these troubled times, it is crucial that we can rely upon Investigations _absolutely_.” Colonel Wells' face was expressionless. She doled her words out slowly, pausing between every phrase as if it were its own sentence. “Do you understand, Major?”

“Investigations is,” Major Armstrong hauled in a breath, “a _bastion_ of _incorruptibility_!”

That was going a little far, Sciezka thought to herself. Wells must realise that Brigadier General Hughes had been mixed up with Mustang, with everything? But then, people expected hyperbole from the Major. She ducked her head lower behind the files stacking her desk. 

“Good,” said Wells. She eyed him. “Because, you understand, given this department’s role, the military must be able to have utter confidence in its neutrality, in its security. If there _were_ any issues, then of course, we’d have to take any measures necessary.” The last three words dropped out especially slow, one by one. 

“Were there a security breach,” Major Armstrong said, “I would root out those responsible with _my own hands_!” Sciezka peeked from between the stacks; he was, of course posing illustratively, fists pressed together. “I would not _rest_ -“

“Yes, that’s very reassuring, Major,” Wells said. She stood up, and skimmed a hand down the side of her cavalry skirt. Major Armstrong rose after her. He craned his head down and gave his usual impeccable salute. Wells tapped two dismissive fingers to her forehead, then walked out. 

After the office door closed behind Wells, Sciezka glanced up. From up there, Armstrong had a good view of her over her little wall of paper. They looked at each other quietly for a few moments. She smiled nervously and nodded; it had been a decent performance. Finally, he sighed out a loud breath, nodded once in return, then returned to his desk and to his work. 

Sciezka fanned herself absently with a clipboard, and looked back down at the report she was reading. It had been filed by two of the numerous Investigations personnel whose loyalties lay with Hakuro. Its subject matter was the industrial contacts being privately brokered by certain officers working under Brigadier General Mustang. It contained a number of significant inaccuracies, which had been arranged, with some effort, by the same officers. It was marked on every page with a red stamp. After she finished looking at it, it would go where Major Armstrong had asked her to put it: in a locked filing cabinet in a locked room. But before that, she flicked through it, and remembered every word of every page. And every word of every page would be retyped that night, in the back room of a quiet bar no one knew, and picked up later by the wavy-haired barmaid who brought her club soda. And, as ever, Mustang would have read the whole thing by breakfast.

***

On Wednesday morning, Fuery found himself doing a favour for a friend of an ex of a friend, whose radio was inexplicably bust. This sort of thing happened to him a lot, but he didn’t mind. There were worse things in life than being indispensable.

“It was the transistors,” Fuery said, screwing the front of the radio set back on. “Looks like someone had taken them out for testing, then refitted them the wrong way.”

“Is it working?” The friend’s ex’s friend bounced on his heels. He seemed unusually jumpy today. 

Fuery pushed a button, and crackling static sounded out of the radio’s headset. He held the headset up to one ear and turned the dial until he picked up a clear channel. “Sounds fine.”

“Thank you so much!” said the friend’s ex’s friend. “I really appreciate this. I’ll buy you a beer Saturday. Listen, while you’re here, do you mind if I ask you something?” 

Here it came. Fuery smiled. “Sure!”

The friend’s ex’s friend looked around. “It’s a bit … delicate.” So he was asking for someone else. His boss? “If I asked, would you be able to tell me where your C.O. stood on certain … policy issues?”

***

On Thursday evening, Al and Izumi circled the room at a sherry party held at Central University’s Department of Elemental Alchemy. The party was private; a circle of scientists, mostly from the university, who supposedly came together to discuss “the future of the discipline.” Anyone who'd made the invite list knew the actual agenda was to formulate a university-based programme to replace the State Alchemist scheme. Only a few people probably guessed that there was another, more immediate agenda: to identify and recruit trustworthy state-class alchemists who could offer their skills to Team Mustang. Mostly though, the professors and grad students in the room had come to gossip about their colleagues and for the free alcohol, and not necessarily in that order. Academics were reassuringly predictable like that.

As he hovered, gossiped and sipped his sherry, part of Al observed his old teacher with some astonishment : he had never seen her so _charming_ before. What was really odd was the way she did it - the only way, he supposed. She talked shop. She just barrelled up to people and plunged straight into heavy academic debate, no introductions, no small talk required. _What’s your field? Where do you stand on the pedesis debate? Isn’t Braucher’s latest monograph a pile of tripe?_

Everyone loved it. 

Apparently, Al had been wasting his time with his attempts at flattery and social graces. In this department of eccentrics, obsessives and people who just plain thought a lot of themselves, interrogation and aggressive debate was the way forward. 

At eight o’clock, the party broke up. Izumi and Al discreetly left for dinner with a small group of the trusted and those who were earning their trust. As they walked across the lawns of campus, Izumi was deep in conversation with Al’s university supervisor Professor Mackintosh, whom not long ago he’d been hoping Teacher would never find out about, less meet. Teacher made a comment; Professor Mackintosh barked out a hearty laugh. Al contemplated his own doom.

***

On Friday morning, Major Miles found himself approached in the refectory by the major general in charge of South City: a man he’d only briefly met once before, but who seemed suddenly to have an urgent need to make casual chit-chat with him. The major general came from the old school of the military, and the old school tended to be sceptical about Mustang and anyone who consorted with him. Yet here the major general was, making awkward small talk with one of Mustang's direct subordinates.

“And I always thought you had the right idea about that sort of thing up at Briggs, none of this nonsense,” said the major general to Miles, ten minutes in. 

Miles nodded and smiled with one side of his mouth. _Give him as little as possible, let him see what he wants to see_. 

“Tell me,” said the major general, leaning forward a little, “what have you observed of Mustang?”

“That he’s a patriot,” said Miles.

***

Even after four years as a law-abiding citizen, Paninya still seemed to like entering buildings by the window. So when Winry walked into the back office after clinic hours to find a window wide open, she just looked around the room for a dark ponytail and a cheeky smile.

“Where do you feel like heading for lunch?” Winry asked. 

“The pressed sandwich place!" said Paninya, feet up on Winry’s desk. “Who are these from?” she said, nodding her head at the chocolate box she was rifling through. "Admirer?"

"Client," said Winry. “Help yourself, by the way. Remember Mr Dale?"

"Sexy farmboy?" said Paninya. She popped a chocolate into her mouth. 

Winry rolled her eyes, leant over and took a truffle. 

Paninya swallowed her chocolate, and said, "Was there a note? Did he ask you for a drink?"

"The note said thank you. And even if he had, I don't date clients." Winry opened the door of the office. 

Paninya raised her index finger as she got up. " _Ed_ was a client." 

"Ed was different. I've known him my whole life, I didn't meet him through professional channels."

"But that's the thing, you don't meet anyone new _except_ for professional stuff.” Paninya continued to bang the same drum as they headed out through the clinic. “You’ve been working like crazy since you guys split, and you only ever hang out with the same bunch. Obviously, we're awesome, but you've met us already, and the only ones who are single right now are me and Simon." She wiggled her eyebrows on the last word.

"I'm not dating him. He's a friend."

"He likes you."

"You're exaggerating. And anyway, why would I ruin a good friendship by dating on the rebound?”

"Well, you've got to date someone on the rebound. Get back in the saddle, that's what I say. You’re ruling out Simon, sexy farmboy _and_ soldier boy back there -”

On that, they opened the door and nearly ran straight into a blue-uniformed chest. 

Winry’s first thought was that, embarrassingly enough, this was Warrant Officer Brosch early for PT. But it wasn’t. It was three tall soldiers, none of whom were smiling. “Can I help you?” she said, slipping on the professional smile. 

“Ms. Rockbell?” said the one in the middle. He held out a thick envelope with her name on it. Winry’s stomach bottomed out. Ed and Al. No. 

She ripped open the envelope without another word - but by the time she was sliding out the sheaf of papers, she’d already realised this couldn’t be the bad news that always lurked in the back of her mind. This wasn’t a black-edged telegram. It was - wait, what?

“ _Deployment orders_?” she said.

“That’s correct,” said the soldier in the middle. 

She flicked through the pages rapidly. Her heart was beating double-time. Next to her, Paninya hovered edgily. According to these papers, Winry was supposedly reporting to West City Headquarters in two day’s time, and from there to the Watkins Centre. This was crazy. The Watkins Centre was an army clinic with a reputation for experimental automail design. A pretty horrible reputation, in fact, bad enough that Winry knew even a lot of military people avoided this clinic. They would push through custom designs dangerous enough that most mechanics and surgeons wouldn’t touch them. This was completely crazy. 

Winry looked up. “You have one of those packets for Mr Garfiel too?” 

The man in the middle shook his head. 

Paninya frowned, and reached for the papers. “What the hell -“ The man on the left snapped his hand out fast, and then Paninya was clutching her arm. “What the _fuck_?” She cycled her wrist. 

“Those are military documents!” said the man in the centre. 

“ _Hey_ ” said Winry, jumping in before Paninya could do something inadvisable. “You do _not_ assault people on the steps of my clinic.” She wanted to go a hell of a lot further than that. But this situation was getting scary. First, she needed to work out what was up. “Okay,” she said. “First of all, on what grounds exactly are you deploying me? I’m not in the reserves, and we’ve got a standing ceasefire with Creta, am I right?”

“It’s the duty of any citizen to be called to serve at any time,” said the guy in the middle. 

“To be called to serve the _Fuhrer_ , you left out that part,” said Winry. “We don’t have a standing Fuhrer. Who are these orders from?”

“It’s all in there,” said the middle guy. “If you’d read it properly.”

Winry glanced down and up again. “This is signed on behalf of the commanding officer at West. Last I checked, he doesn’t have the authority to order civilian conscription, am I right?”

“You think it’s a good idea to get smart here?” He took a step forward. Winry gave Paninya a warning glance, and held her ground. 

“The only person who can order general conscription is the Fuhrer,” said Winry. “We don’t have a Fuhrer.”

“This country has a military government, to which you owe your allegiance.”

Winry said, “As I understand it, there are eight people in the provisional government who’d have to sign that order for it to be legal - and even then, it'd have to be war time."

“It is not your business to question how your country is governed!” The guy was yelling now. “It is your business to serve your country!”

Winry was scared now, properly frightened. “This is _illegal_ ,” she said, trying to keep her face hard and calm. “Whoever this started with, they’re breaking constitutional law. You think Brigadier General Mustang and Colonel Fraser up at Briggs would like to know about that? And you think whoever gave this order will be pleased to find out you’re the one who got it leaked to them?”

Her stomach rolled. The mens’ faces were blank - but they didn’t say anything more, and they didn’t move. 

Winry drew another breath. “Here,” she said, holding out the orders. “You can have these back. I’m going to lunch.” And she stepped sideways past them, and carried on walking. 

Paninya followed her. They walked in silence. Paninya was frowning furiously. They didn’t look round until they’d walked a block. By then, the three soldiers weren’t there any more. 

“How’s your hand?” said Winry, touching Paninya’s wrist. 

“It’s fine,” said Paninya. She held it up, wiggled her fingers. “Assholes. Stupid way to try to poach you.”

“I don’t think that was it,” said Winry. “If the military wanted to poach me, I’d be getting a call from the Bradley Centre and a big bribe. They wouldn’t be doorstepping me and trying to ship me out to a bad clinic. The Watkins Centre is a dump, but it’s a dump right in Hakuro’s heartland. This was a grudge thing.”

“About the Atelier treating Warrant Officer Brosch?” asked Paninya. 

“Yeah, I think so. That and - well, they went for me and not for Mr. Garfiel, so it’s probably about getting to Ed and Al too.”

“Wow,” said Paninya. “You’re pretty talented at getting yourself mixed up in politics. You’re not going to have to go on the lam in Lior again, are you?”

Winry sighed. This was too close to the bone. “Don’t. I hope not.”

“Ed and Al are going to shit themselves,” said Paninya casually. 

“Paninya.” Winry stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. “Don’t say a word to them about this yet. Please.”

“You’re kidding me, right? They could help you! You need to tell them.”

“I will! Look, I think whoever sent those guys was just bluffing, okay. They don’t have the authority to take me by force. I don’t know if they’re going to be back or not, but I need to speak to some people first.”

“People?” said Paninya. 

_Not here_ , mouthed Winry. Paninya cocked her head. “There’s going to be a change of government soon,” Winry said slowly. “Everyone knows that.”

“Yeah,” said Paninya. “But we want Mustang in charge, right?”

“Right,” said Winry. “Pretty much the whole of RV does. But - did you ever think? What if it went the other way? As in, what if in a month’s time, Hakuro was Fuhrer?”

“Honestly? I try not to think about stuff like that. I mean, what good does it do?”

“Well,” said Winry. “Did you ever think what would happen here? A centre of industry that the military can’t do without? And it’s a town full of Mustang supporters?” 

Paninya frowned. “Are you saying they’d - conscript the automail industry or something? Like, send the troops in?”

Winry nodded. “People have been thinking about that.” She looked around. In the midday heat, the street was deserted. She said, very quietly, “we’ve been thinking about plans.”

Paninya looked at her, lips parted. Winry could see her thinking it through: an industry centre that a hostile government would need. An industry centre full of inventive, tough, heavily armed democracy supporters. In the middle of a small mountain range. They could never take on the whole Amestrian Army in open war, they knew that. But there were other ways to make themselves disruptive. 

“Interested in hearing more?” said Winry. 

Paninya looked at her for a moment, then grinned a broad and evil grin. “How about you buy me a sandwich and we head somewhere quiet?"

***

***

“Well,” said Roy on Friday afternoon, “what kind of week has it been?”

“Well, we may have South’s support now,” said Riza. “That’s something. On the other hand, Hakuro’s people are leaning on Investigations pretty hard. I know how much we need intel on Hakuro, but I think we’ll have to hold off getting our people there to do any active digging for information.”

“I agree,” said Roy. “Hakuro’s people are sniffing around too much. Let’s just have them sit tight and keep their ears open. We’ll have to use other means to dig through Hakuro’s trash.”

“And South?”

“Let’s count it as a gain, and keep moving.”

They were so close now, so close to getting enough support to make their move. “At what point do we …” Riza started. 

Roy nodded. “That’s our problem, isn’t it?” He sighed and tapped a pencil against his lips. 

Riza looked out the window, at the visible square of utterly blue sky. Somewhere out there was Chrysalis and his young homunculus. Still in Creta, they hoped. But for all they watched the border, they couldn’t guarantee that one day he wouldn't manage to creep back through the mountains. “The moment his people have the homunculus back,” she murmured, “Hakuro’s going to move for power. He must have plans just as we do. Even if we can’t get at them.”

Roy nodded. “The fact that his security’s this tight tells me he does have plans. At least he’s a predictable man - if we can’t get to his secrets, we can second-guess them.”

“He’s a panicker, too,” said Riza. “Taboo alchemy terrifies him, yet he’s done this.”

“He wouldn’t be able to control that thing if he did win a war with it,” Roy said. “Chrysalis would be a kingmaker. Can you imagine what this country would look like?”

“Yes,” said Riza. They were quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Fuhrer Grumman underestimated Hakuro. We … shouldn’t.” 

“Another week,” said Roy. “We’re not there yet.”

Riza let a breath out. Yes, it was the right call, on balance. “Sir,” she said, standing, saluting. 

She walked out to her office, picked up the little alarm clock on the desk. One by one, people turned to look. The Friday afternoon chatter faded away. She wound it, then turned to the back. As usual, when she did this, the room became absolutely still. Next door, she knew the same routine would be taking place in Roy’s office. With the eyes of every one of her people on her, she flipped the alarm switch on - then off. She set the clock back down, and watched the tension fall from the room. A low murmur of talk started. The signal had been given: it wasn’t yet time. 

“Thank you, everyone,” said Riza, “for another week.”

***

“Did you see there was another parcel from your mom this morning?” asked Rebecca, slinging an arm over the back of the passenger seat. “I opened it. It was cake.”

Jean groaned. “I knew it was gonna be. My ma gives us cake, your mom sends us cake. We have a cake mountain.” 

“I know!” said Rebecca. She pulled her hair back and retied it, trying to undo some of the damage the breeze was doing as the car sped up. “What was the last one, four days ago? How much do they think we can get through?”

“I think it’s a mom thing. Ma just does that when she’s worried, she feeds everyone. She baked when I came home from the hospital, she baked when I went back in the army. You know what she did the day after the Promised Day?”

“When she made all those apple cakes for people in the village who got sick? I thought that was sweet.”

“Yeah, but - sometimes I think she thinks food has magic powers. It’s like, Ma, it’s awesome apple cake, but I don’t think it actually raises the dead.”

“That apple cake _is_ the best, though.”

“Well, your mom’s, torta del - what is it again?”

“Torta della nonna. I know. So good. She did not need to give us two of those, by the way. We’re going to have to take some of this stuff to the office or my food-wastage guilt will kick in and make me eat a whole one.”

“Maybe we could get everyone to drop votes into a hat?”

“Yeah, we could put a sign out by the cakes. ‘Which of our mothers is better at sublimating worry into pastry form?’” 

Outside the car, the suburbs of Central were finally giving way to fields. Rebecca put a hand to Jean’s shoulder. “So,” she said, “we’re out of town now. Are you going to let me in on the mystery?”

“Gimme a minute,” Jean says. “I need to find somewhere to pull the car over.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. Jean didn’t look nervous - so once again, she was going to have to reject the idea that this was some kind of surprise proposal thing. He’d be sweating bullets if it was something like that. And it wasn’t anything bad, because - well, when it came to her, Jean’s poker face sucked. So that left work. This was skullduggery stuff, for sure. 

They turned down a dirt track, and, a few yards down, finally pulled over. Jean dug a spare key out of his pocket. “Look in the trunk,” he said. Rebecca eyed him; he was serious. 

She hopped out the car, went round the back to unlock it. 

The trunk was empty. Well, actually, not quite: there was a thick tartan blanket there that looked new, and underneath it - just the standard repair kit, and the floor of the trunk. But no. It looked higher than normal. 

Rebecca frowned, starting to get where this was going. She felt around the edge of the wood veneer, and found a hole in the nearside that she could hook a finger under. The floor lifted easily, and underneath … cases of ammunition. She recognised boxes of bullets for their sidearms, some larger calibre, likely for the pistol Jean must have stashed in the glove box or taped under the wheel. And rifle bullets. She picked up the long object wrapped in another blanket. She only had to undo the cloth around the muzzle to recognise Jean’s rifle. She exhaled hard, replaced it and took in the rest of the stash. Canned field rations: a couple of weeks’ worth. Chocolate. Cigarettes. Jean’s spare medical kit. A pocket stove and a field kettle. And last but by no means freaking least: an old sportsbag packed nearly solid with wrapped wads of Aerugan currency. 

Rebecca locked up the trunk, and came and leaned on the driver’s side of the convertible. Jean looked up at her. “There’s only one rifle,” she said. “Do we play rock-paper-scissors for it?”

“Spot anything I missed?” Jean said. 

“Clean underwear?”

“Dammit!” Jean ran a hand through his hair. “I knew there’d be something.”

Rebecca snorted. “Actually, we should put a total change of clothes in there. If we’re going to go on the lam, we’d need civvies.” She paused for a moment. “Shit, is this really happening?”

“Let’s hope not.”

Rebecca sighed. “We’ve got a plan, right? I mean, from what you’ve packed, it looks like we wouldn’t be retreating to - well, the same place most people are headed.”

“Aerugo.”

“I knew it.”

“We could pull it off.” Jean was slipping straight into officer mode, and Rebecca felt her mind going to the same place. “We’d just have to get there fast enough.”

“Wow,” said Rebecca. “When did you cook this up?”

“Yesterday and today, mostly. The Chief okayed it this morning.”

She started walking around to the passenger side, feeling in need of a seat, and possibly a puff or two on a borrowed cigarette. 

“Hold up,” said Jean. “Come back.” He opened his door, then pushed over to the passenger side and nodded his head at the driver’s seat. 

Rebecca opened the door, but hovered. Jean did not let anyone else in the driving seat of his car: neither the peer-pressure of his buddies nor all the enticements a good girlfriend could offer would get him to let someone else drive his baby. “Seriously?” she said finally. 

Jean shrugged. “I’m not driving all the way to Aerugo in one shift, no breaks. I’m hardcore, but I’m not that hardcore.”

Rebecca slid into the driving seat and shut the door behind her. She ran her hands over the steering wheel. She put one hand to the motorbike throttle that replaced the accelerator pedal, the other to the knob on the steering wheel that let it spin one-handed. She took in the walnut panelling, the general air of expense and power. This was a sweet ride in the passenger seat, but actually driving it? She was so psyched it was almost taking her mind off armaggedon. 

“This car,” Rebecca said, “goes from zero to sixty faster than anything you can buy in this country.”

“I know.” 

“The custom job on the controls is about a zillion cens of Rush Valley workmanship.”

“I know.” Jean didn’t even look like he was having trepidations. He was grinning his head off. 

“You’ve never let anyone drive this car.”

“I know.”

“Do I get to lord this over Breda? Or is that a really bad idea?”

Jean wrinkled his nose. “Eh, maybe tell him after the revolution?”

“I think this may be the single most romantic thing you’ve ever done for me.” Rebecca leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she put her hand back on the throttle, turned the key, and felt felt the car purr to life.

***

"This one?” said Riza. It was small, puckered and depigmented around the edges, obviously the scar of a clean gunshot wound.

"Well, I got shot," said Duncan Miles.

"Well, yes." Riza had noticed the old scar, many times. Straight through his shoulder, a matching one on his back. She’d never asked about it before. "Which is the exit wound?" 

"This one." Miles tapped the front of his shoulder. Riza fingered the edges of the scar, gently, then brushed her hand over the white curls on his broad chest, just because they were there. “Major General Armstrong was furious with me."

_Never turn your back on the enemy_ , Riza guessed. "How did it happen?"

"Very simply," said Duncan. He turned to face her on the bed, propped himself up on one elbow. "During a Drachman skirmish. A farm by the border. We thought we'd cleared them out, but it turned out there was a sniper in the barn."

They would have been on the ground floor, thought Riza. The wound on Duncan’s back was lower down. "Silly spot to choose. Why not just sit up in the window of the loft? Then they could have picked off the lot of you at their leisure.” 

"We think he was planning to make a bolt for it, then he missed his chance." Duncan stroked down her side, drummed his fingers absently on her hipbone. "It was a very odd experience. At first - I saw I'd been shot. It burned but I felt all right, just angry. I warned my squad - they got him in a few seconds - and then as soon as they shouted that he was down, I suddenly felt absolutely terrible. It's just like they say." 

Riza fingered the newest scar on her left shoulder, where the assassin's bullet had grazed her. "It's annoying, isn't it? Thinking you might be about to die over nothing?"

Duncan didn’t reply for a moment. He gave her an affectionate grin, and stroked his free hand over her hair. "I think it might be more annoying," he said, "when you're pointing yourself towards a goal. In Briggs we were more about the everyday struggle. You learn to have your affairs in order - I mean, in your mind."

“We’ve always had fallback plans, you know," said Riza. "For if one of us were to die - well, I mean, that's happened, hasn't it? We don't just let things -" She stopped herself. She was getting flustered, and she wasn’t quite sure why.

"Worst case scenarios,” said Duncan. "For Team Mustang, planning for these things is like running a fire drill, just in case. For us, it was more like preparing for the first snowfall of winter. Inevitable. It's funny, though. I quite like the feeling that there are things I need to stay alive for."

Riza tried to school her face at his understatement, but she failed. She laughed and kissed him on the edge of the jaw, and as usual he took the teasing with a quirky grin. 

He drew her closer. They traded small kisses for a while, and it ended with her pressed against his side, held in his arms. One hand was stroking down the line of her spine. She kissed his chest, and settled. 

“How are you feeling?” she said. 

“Better.” She could feel his voice reverberate in his chest. “Thanks for this evening.”

“It’s fine. We all have those evenings, don’t we? When we could use some company.” Evenings when the past or the future crowd in, and it’s better not to be alone. 

Duncan nodded, and stroked her hair. Again, Riza wondered at him, and at herself. 

A long time ago, she’d come to prefer who she was in public. On days when the pressure from within her pulled at her walls, she’d learnt to tire it out with hard work and long runs. The people close to her, however, always seemed to feel otherwise. Rebecca, dragging her out for cocktails in East and making her laugh; Roy, making a friendship from their terrible bargain, insisting on first names and takeout after meetings and silly banter. And now Duncan, who made her tea exactly the way she liked it, who told her his fears and asked her her own.

***

It was the hottest night of the year.

The air was thick and muggy: even with every window of Roy’s apartment thrown open, even with his ailing electrical fan on at full blast. 

Things were moving so fast. Yet even with so much to think about, it was too hot to think.

So Roy told himself, anyway. It was late; he was done with work for the day, and so it was time to distract himself. Ed was tangled uncomfortably with him under a cold shower. This wasn’t the most awkward position Roy had ever tried to have sex in, but it was close. Ed sat between his legs in the tub, leaning back against him. Roy tried to hump the cleft of his ass and jerk Ed off at the same time. It was far from easy. Ed had decided to compensate for Roy’s inability to move by throwing his hips back and forward. Neither of them had enough room in the tub for their legs. But still, neither of them would stop. 

Ed’s head was tipped back onto Roy’s shoulder, and his wet hair streamed down Roy’s own back. Ed grunted into the skin of Roy’s neck, and Roy shivered reflexively. He wanted more _time_. A sudden thought, surprisingly intense: more time for what, exactly? 

Ed ground his butt into Roy’s dick, and Roy groaned and pushed his temple against Ed’s. Ed was beautiful wet. Perhaps that was why this was, against all odds, working? Ed was beautiful in any situation. At the end of another long and shitty day, he would find Ed in his bed, like a mirage: with his athlete’s body, his easy directness, his off-kilter brilliance and his endless energy.

“Fuck!” yelled Ed, right in his ear. Roy jumped reflexively. “Fuck, cramp, ow, fuck!”

They both tried to move at once. Roy got his side scraped by an automail elbow; Ed flailed in the slippery tub. He managed to stretch his right leg out. 

“Are you all right?” Roy said, half-laughing on the last word. 

“Better,” said Ed, cycling his ankle in the air. “Laugh it up, you unsympathetic bastard.”

“I’m laughing _with_ you,” Roy said. 

“That’s a bullshit phrase.” 

“All right, I’m laughing at you and at me.” Roy shook his head. “Shit, the lengths we go to for sex. Everyone else in this city is just passed out with the windows open.”

“We can’t stop now!” The pitch of Ed’s voice tilted up at the end. Roy reached around Ed’s neat waist to palm his dick, then slipped his hand along it. “Okay,” said Ed, “yeah. Keep your hand there. Let’s get back to this so we can go pass out like normal people.” 

Roy laughed, and rubbed their cheeks together, and resumed the awkward, silly, satisfactory humping. Ed was hot in his hand, warm and vital against his skin. For a moment, he loved him. 

Much later that night, Roy lay far too awake, while Ed sprawled sleeping across his sheets, and he realised: it wasn’t just for a moment.

***

She snored.

Havoc wasn’t sure if he could ever bear to tell her. All right, though, it was a cute snore: a snuffly little girl noise, not like the weird barnyard sounds Breda would make when he passed out drunk. It still wasn’t helping him sleep, though. Damn, it was hot. Even the open windows weren’t doing much but let in some muggy summer air. He was starting to itch with sweat. He really wanted to grab a magazine or something to fan himself, but Rebecca had contrived, in her sleep, to start using his left arm as a pillow. He couldn’t reach the nightstand without waking her, and for some reason, he couldn’t quite make himself do it. 

Becky’s hair was falling in her face. He pushed it out of her eyes gently with his free hand, and in the moonlight he looked at her dark eyelashes, her cute little nose, her half-open mouth. He was having one of those moments: _you’re gorgeous and funny and smart - how’d you end up in my bed again?_ She’d been a fast learner with the hand controls today. She was a fast learner all round. 

Rebecca made a particularly loud snuffle, turned herself over, and shoved her nose into the crook of Havoc’s elbow. How did she even sleep in this heat? Havoc sighed and attempted to fan himself with his own hand. It didn’t work so great. There she was, he thought, small and solid and lovely, and there was the future ahead of them, a great big fat unknown. 

Either of them could be dead tomorrow. 

“Fuck it,” said Havoc, “we should get married.”

Rebecca slowly rolled over. Her eyes were open. She frowned at him and blinked. “Did you just say we should get married?”

“Crap,” said Havoc, “I thought you were asleep?”

“ _Crap_?” said Becky, apparently wide awake. “Crap as in you said it, or you didn’t say it?”

“I said it!” said Havoc. “Only I thought you were asleep!”

Rebecca folded her arms. “So would you have said it if I were awake?”

“Of course I would! I just - I didn’t wanna -“

“Didn’t want to what?” 

“I’m sorry! Look, I’m sorry. It’s just - ugh - I’m digging myself into a hole here. Can we just back up a step and start again?”

“Uh,” Rebecca said. She ran a hand through her hair. “I guess, but you know it’s out of the gate now, buddy? I mean, you know you gotta tell me now if you’re proposing or not.”

“I am, okay!” Wait, what? He didn’t even know he was going to say that. Havoc’s mouth didn’t seem to be consulting his brain right now. “Only now I just screwed up proposing, this is great, this is just the sort of thing I do.”

Rebecca grinned at him with one side of her mouth. Havoc gave her a despairing look. Then she started giggling at him. 

“Stop it!” He squeezed her shoulder, and tried to look appealing. “C’mon!” But Becky didn’t stop giggling. After a moment, he grinned, and chuckled, and shook his head, and kissed her on the ear. “So,” he said, “seriously, what do you say?”

“Let’s do it,” she said. 

“Like right now?” 

“Yeah! Well, not right now, I mean it’s past midnight, I think the courthouse is shut. But, I don’t want to wait until the revolution or the war or whatever it’s gonna be gets done. I mean, who knows what’s gonna happen, right?”

“Right,” Havoc said. “So - that’s a yes?”

She gave him a little punch on the arm. “That’s a yes, you doof.”

“Right,” said Havoc. He leaned down, and she put her face up to his, and he kissed her for a while. This part, it was easy enough to get right. 

“Whoa,” she said. “We’re getting married.”

“Whoa,” he said in return. “We’re getting married.”


	10. Flashpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Havoc and Rebecca harmonise, Roy and Ed clash, and the coalition explodes.

“You know what your problem is, Roy?” Hughes raised his beer glass and gestured with his pinkie finger. Roy narrowed his eyes at him. 

“No, I really don’t,” he said. “Lucky for me you’re about to tell me in great detail.”

“I am, indeed,” said Hughes. “Your problem, Roy, is that you’re stuck.”

He just let that one sit for a moment, taking a pull on his beer and looking Roy in the eye. Roy refused to give Hughes the set-up line for his big speech. Instead he said nothing. He looked across the square, watched the passers-by in the May sunshine. 

Hughes, of course, continued, just as if Roy had said _what do you mean?_ or _do go on_. “How many relationships have you had that have gone over the three month mark?”

Ah, this again. Roy leaned back in his chair and pretended to think about it, ready to give Hughes a little shit about this. “One? Two?” He took a sip of beer and ostentatiously checked out the couple two tables over. “Does regular fucking count here?”

Hughes rolled his eyes. “Stop it. I have a serious point to make -“

“- About how marriage is the pinnacle of human happiness, it will ensure I achieve all other life goals, and by the way, your wife looks gorgeous pregnant -”

“- a point about you. In fact.”

“A point about me about that.”

“So what _are_ your _goals_? Apart from the one we can’t mention at a street café?”

“Isn’t that one enough?”

“Why does that one have to consume everything else?” 

“I’m twenty-five, Hughes, where’s the fire?”

“You’ll be forty-five and exactly the same if you don’t watch out.”

Roy pinched the bridge of his nose. “What brought on this unannounced, non-consensual therapy session?” 

Hughes shrugged and grinned. Roy shook his head. Hughes always had to just launch into serious things without warning. Of course, the problem with Roy knowing this was that Hughes took it to be a licence to launch.

“What do you want, though? You want to settle down with someone?” 

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“I know you have.” Hughes had trapped him, of course: a dozen drunken conversations back in Academy, the _beautiful future_.

Roy looked at him, looked out at the sunny street, looked back. This was a conversation for two in the morning, not for a summer’s evening.

“What changed?” asked Hughes.

“You know what changed,” Roy said. 

“Yes,” said Hughes, “but. I can’t work out if given the Grand Plan you just don’t want to give hostages to fortune, or if you think you have to kick yourself out of the Human Club for misbehaviour.” 

There was a long silence. Roy’s summer mood was far from him now. There was a sick weight in the air, in Roy’s stomach. 

Roy took a breath in and out. He looked at Hughes. He said, “I don’t know which. Does that help?”

“One more question,” said Hughes, “then we can talk about football. Do you think I shouldn’t be starting a family?”

Roy managed not to flinch. Hughes’ tone was firm, shut down. He wasn’t asking Roy if this was the right thing; Hughes brought to his family the same devastating certainty with which he approached all his endeavours. 

Roy looked at the bowl of sugar cubes on their table, at the rings left on the top by other people’s cups. “Of course not.” 

He meant it, and he knew the hypocrisy of the thing, and it changed nothing. He still couldn’t square his opinion of Hughes and his view of himself, and he still couldn’t reimagine that former, private future.

***

The officers’ bathrooms at HQ always let you down if you were getting ready to go out on the town. They were cramped, the mirrors were tiny, and the lighting sucked so much that one time, Rebecca had gone out with so much blusher on she’d looked like a showroom dummy.

She smoothed down her dress and twirled experimentally. “You sure it’s not too short?”

Riza popped her head out of the cubicle she was changing in, and shook her head curtly. “Still not too short.” She emphasised _still_ by just a fraction. “Why are you worried? I thought the point was to show your legs off to the groom.”

Rebecca nodded. “Right. Just checking. Again.” She turned to the mirror, reached into the front of her dress and readjusted the neckline. “What about the cleavage? Not enough, too much or just right?”

The lock of Riza’s cubicle rattled, and then she emerged again, to dutifully inspect the cleavage. “The right amount.”

Rebecca was short on time, so she ignored her instinct that Riza was saying whatever it took. She twirled again and smoothed down her skirt. “How about the thigh holster? Can you see the line of it?”

“Practically undetectable,” said Riza. “Don’t forget to keep your champagne in your left hand so you can draw with your right.”

“Duh,” said Rebecca.

***

Of course Havoc’s hair wouldn’t lay flat. The one time you want to look that slick is your wedding day, right? But it was too late now to fix now. He was up front in a function room in city hall, with Breda standing next to him, and behind him on rows of chairs were his boss, his mom, his friends, comrades, and soon-to be in-laws.

“Am I jittering?” he whispered to Breda. “Stop me if I’m jittering.”

“You just started.”

“Well, you’re tapping your foot. It’s making me nervous. More nervous.”

“What if we both look ahead and stop fidgeting?”

“Good plan. You got the rings?”

“Yes. They’re still in my pocket. It’s amazing how I managed not to lose them since the last time you asked, two minutes ago.”

“Great, great. Okay, just one more thing. Do I smell like elevator?” Breda shook his head, and Havoc took a deep breath. The city hall’s service elevator had had a vaguely dank smell to it. It was not the most glamorous way to arrive at your own wedding, but it turned out the city hall had thirty grand, imposing and impassable marble steps out front, and that they didn’t take well to offers of alchemical remodelling. Havoc would have loved to have fought that one all the way, but they’d only had a week to plan this wedding, and there was a real war to be fought beyond it. He could lean on city hall after the coup, provided that Mustang made it and he made it and they weren’t all dead, or sitting in jail cells twiddling their thumbs waiting for the firing squad. 

Now he really was nervous. Dammit. 

And right there, the pianist in the corner started up. The chattering started to die down. Havoc’s system got another, frankly unnecessary adrenaline shot. He managed to keep looking ahead for another few seconds, then he couldn’t help himself: he turned his head and swivelled a bit and saw Rebecca. 

Her dress was white and kind of slinky and it showed her knees. There was a big red flower in her hair and a smile on her face like she was about to bust out crying. Havoc blinked himself. Dry eyes, deep breath, stay cool. 

She reached the front, and sat in the empty chair next to him, and slipped her hand into his. They looked at each other; he squeezed her hand. Then they both looked ahead, and the big room got very quiet.

***

The ceremony was, frankly, a blur. It was short; or maybe Rebecca’s nerves just made it seem that way. Afterwards, Rebecca just remembered how she’d stumbled through stage fright for the very first time in her life. She repeated a bunch of words. She stared into Jean’s lovely blue eyes. At the end they kissed for a good few seconds to the crowd’s applause, before they remembered that both their moms were sitting six feet away.

A quick ride in a weird smelling elevator later, then they were in the pub three doors along holding glasses of fizzy wine, and it was done. There was a ring on her finger. _Wow_ , Rebecca thought, watching the crowd chuckle dutifully at one of her dad’s bad jokes. _We’re married._

“And now,” Breda said, when her dad was finally done with the cute childhood anecdotes, “you might want to clear a large space for this next part, because it involves leaving Captains Havoc and Catalina in charge of a sabre.” 

Jean narrowed his eyes at Breda. Riza and Maria brought out the table with the fruit cake Jean’s mom had brought. Jean and Rebecca made their way out front. Mustang stepped out of the crowd holding a sabre. He offered to Jean with a grin and an unnecessary raised eyebrow. Jean took it; Rebecca crouched and put her hand over his. 

Jean aimed the sword at the cake, experimentally. “Okay,” he said. “There is really no way this situation could possibly go wrong.”

There were a few whoops of laughter. Rebecca said, “At least we got through the important part first. If we trash this cake and maim a couple bystanders, at least we get to go to jail as husband and wife.”

The laughter was a bit more uncomfortable this time. _Good job_ , Rebecca thought to herself. _You had to mention jail._

“Cut the cake already,” someone shouted. 

Jean grinned and tilted his wrist, and there, the cake was cut, without a single casualty. And it was delicious, too.

***

***

“Just look at everyone,” Al said to Ed. “It’s great. I can’t remember the last time I saw everyone in such a good mood.”

Ed looked around the room. “Hawkeye’s _dancing_ ,” he said. And she was, shimmying with Catalina to some goofy song that everyone there over thirty seemed to go crazy for. “It was a good time for a party, I guess. Give everyone a chance to blow off some steam. Before, you know.”

Al exhaled. “I guess that would be why. One last big fling, huh?” 

“I guess.” 

“Well, that’s the mood killed,” said Al. “I’m going to the bar. You want another glass?”

“For sure.” After Al got up, Ed looked around the room some more. Hawkeye and Catalina were still on the dance floor. So was Fuery, and he was surprisingly good on his feet. Catalina’s father was slapping Havoc on the back; Miles and the rest of the ex-Briggs contingent were sitting at a table in the corner, laughing their asses off. And four tables over, Roy was chatting to Ross. He had two shirt buttons popped and his sleeves rolled up: relaxed mode. 

He always did that first thing when he got in the door, Ed thought. He pictured Roy slinging his jacket neatly over the arm of the couch, then running a hand through his hair. Ed felt expansive, a little tipsy. Roy looked happy, he thought, at least in this moment. Those brief flashing grins were Roy’s real smiles, not the game face.

 _I kissed you in a library_ , Ed thought, suddenly. Then, _I like you_. Saying the words in his head gave him a little rush of delight. He did it again. _I like you, I like you, I like you_. How amazing was that? That Ed had discovered Roy the human being behind his public self, that distant and fascinating acquaintance. Ed had found Roy; then they’d found that they liked each other. And Ed liked him a lot! He was funny, he meant what he said, he had beautiful eyes and Ed felt like he could fuck him forever and never get tired of it. It just felt right, all of it, so right that Ed almost didn’t notice it sometimes. Sure, this thing between them was supposed to be casual. But it wasn’t so much anymore, was it? Ed thought of the alchemy lessons, the long talks in the night. He thought of how he spent more nights at Roy’s place than in his own bed. They were being pulled towards each other without any effort at all, as if some law of physics was involved. All Ed had to do was observe.

***

After he’d had two glasses of wine and at least one conversation with every person in the room, Roy found himself alone for a moment, and realised he was dog-tired. Havoc and Catalina would be heading out soon, though; he wanted to stay to see them off. He got up, and as he headed for the pub’s back door and some fresh air, Ed caught his eye.

And few moments after he’d stepped outside, there was Ed: bumping shoulders with him, flushed with wine and cheerfulness, grinning delightedly, beautiful. 

“So,” said Ed, “you want to head home after this?” 

Roy raised an eyebrow. “How many glasses?” 

Ed shrugged, and the smile mostly dropped away. “I got two metal limbs, I get buzzed easily.” He reached out and casually cupped Roy's cheek. One corner of Ed's mouth lifted; the pad of his thumb stroked the skin under Roy's eye. "You look tired," he said. 

Something jolted inside Roy, a little rush of alarm. He turned his cheek away, not quite knowing why. 

“Oh,” Ed said. “Public. Forgot.” He shrugged again. “My bad.”

Roy shook his head. “It’s fine. No one can see us here. Besides, I’m not sure how secret we are; I have a feeling half the office knows by now.” _We._ Roy’s insides rolled again. 

“Okay then,” said Ed, and kissed him. A soft, long kiss and a cool automail hand on the back of his neck. And when they parted, and Ed looked at him, Roy knew beyond doubt what was wrong. 

Ed frowned at him. “Is something up?” 

He should say nothing, he thought. Roy shook his head. He hadn’t hidden it well enough. “Nothing.” They should both just carry on, pretend this wasn’t happening. This wasn’t the time.

“No, what’s up?” Ed smiled at him again. “I don’t mind, just say.” 

“No - no, it’s fine. It’s probably not a good night for you to come over, I’m sorry. We’ll talk another time -” And Roy turned away and would have walked out and escaped it all, if Ed’s hand hadn’t closed on his arm. 

“What?” Ed said. “What?” Ed's eyes had turned wretched, his mouth set. He was starting to realise what was coming. It hurt Roy’s chest to look at him, but he forced himself. 

It was awful, but now it had to be done. Roy said quietly, "We've got a problem, haven't we?" 

Ed's mouth set into a line. He said nothing for a moment. His hand pressed Roy's cheek. "Look -" he started, then paused, seemed to catch himself. "I didn't start this out planning to -" He stopped short again, and took his hand away. 

"This is my fault," said Roy. "I've been a complete idiot.” He looked down, shut his eyes for the moment. “No, sorry. Look, this just isn’t the time. We can have this conversation - after everything. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Ed was staring at him, he could feel it. “No, say the rest,” he said. “You got halfway.” 

And now Ed was going to get hurt. Meeting his eyes was unpleasant, but Roy did it. “This wasn’t a good idea.”

“You want us to stop?” He had hurt Ed already. “You don’t act like it.”

Roy shook his head. “That’s not the point. This can’t go anywhere.” 

“Why not?” said Ed. His voice was firm, flat. “What?” Ed frowned at him furiously. “So - you think I like you too much, and that’s it, just like that?”

"I think -" Roy started. And then he stopped, because he didn't know what he thought. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Ed. I've dealt with this very badly -"

“Why can’t this go anywhere?” Ed tumbled the words out quickly. “Let’s just do it.” Out of nowhere, he grinned, energetic and desperate, and his eyes stayed sad. “I know it’s a bad time, I know you’ve got more important shit to do, but. You - we - if.” He inhaled. “I like you and you like me and I think we should just go for it. I don’t care how hard you have to work, or if it’s dangerous, or if we have to be apart sometimes. I’m fine if -”

“We talked about this at the start, Ed.” Roy hardened his expression, went for the game face after all. It was all out now, and his path was clear. “I thought you were mature enough to -“

“What do _you_ want to do?"

“This was never realistically -“

“What do _you_ want to do?" Ed sounded young, repeating himself. Young and hurt and angry. 

"It's not about what -"

"Yes, _yes it is_. Fuck, so, we're in the middle of the end of the world, okay! So you should know even _more_ what you want, what's important, when it’s all at risk! Just tell me, fuck, tell me what you _want_ , what's so hard about that?"

What did Roy want? He wanted a lot of things that he shouldn’t want, and he wasn’t going to get. He couldn't say it. Somehow, his hands had found their way to Ed's shoulders, and they tightened, and he froze and pulled in a breath. 

Ed put his hands in Roy's hair and kissed him, as if that was just what naturally happened when Roy’s hands were on his shoulders. And Roy kissed back, because that was what naturally happened when Ed kissed him. 

The kiss made both of them calmer. Ed pulled back and looked at Roy after a while. His hands slid down to Roy’s shoulders, and he seemed like he was waiting, miserable. Roy felt like there was a lump of something cold and painful sitting at the bottom of his ribcage. He knew that in his carelessness, he had let this happen to both of them. He’d fallen hard, and that was exactly how it felt: like falling onto concrete and dragging someone else down with him. Because he couldn’t do this. 

He took a step back, until they were too far away to touch. He didn’t say anything. He tried to look cold. 

It didn’t work. Ed’s eyebrows scrunched together and his eyes went wider. “Do you want to be with me?” asked Ed. 

“Yes,” said Roy quietly, because they both knew anyway. “But -”

“So why wouldn’t you even _try_?”

Roy wanted, of course, to reach out and touch Ed and pull him to him. He didn’t. He thought of a dozen things to say, none of them right. He looked down. 

There was a long and horrible pause. Then Roy heard himself break it. “Because. You deserve better.”

Ed said, low and angry, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that -“ Roy really had no idea what he was going to say. “That you’re a good person.” He sucked in a breath. _No, shit._ “That’s not what I meant,” he added quickly. “What I mean is, is you’re young, and I’ve already got a goal I can’t give up, and if, if, if we get through this revolution, this war, then I’m going to be so damn busy with it that there’ll be no time for anything else. And you deserve much more than that. More than I’m going to be able to give you.”

“Bullshit,” said Ed. “More bullshit.”

Roy snapped his head up and looked him in the eye. “It’s just the truth,” he said. “It doesn’t get any less true because it’s hard to hear.”

Ed stayed still for a moment, then he looked down and breathed harshly. Roy braced himself for the explosion, for Ed to walk out or scream in his face or even punch him in the eye. This was horrible and it was inevitable. Roy should have known himself and Ed better, should have known things would end up like this, should have never let it start. And now Ed was hurt, and Roy had hurt him. This should be the last time he ever did this to anyone. He -

“Why,” Ed said quietly, “are you the only person in the revolution who has to be alone?” His head was still down. 

Roy knew immediately that Ed had to have the question wrong. But he couldn’t tell how. “The people working for me -" he tried. “They came on board of their own free will, and I ask a fuck of a lot of them, they’ve sacrificed enough for me, of course they have the right to whatever happiness -”

“Then why not you? How are you different? What makes you so fucking special?”

“I’m not alone,” Roy said, ignoring him. “I have a family. I have Riza. I have my people.”

“I know. You’re not stupid enough to send them away, so why me?”

“Because I refuse to drag you into my generation’s mess!”

Ed threw his hands out to the sides. “You see this uniform? I’m _in_ this mess and you know why? It’s not because you recruited me, either. I could have left, Al could have left, you know why we stayed? ‘Cause it’s the right thing to do. Because we give a damn about what happens to this country, because we’re people and we live here and we want to help fix this goddamn mess. But you know what I don’t get? How making yourself miserable gets you one inch closer to fixing it.”

Roy opened his mouth. Ed glared at him, big-eyed. He sucked in one shaky breath. Then Ed’s right fist hit the wall, and as Roy jumped Ed was already out the door and gone. 

Roy pulled in a breath, let it out. Again. He touched the corners of his eyes, and found them dry. Then he turned and walked back inside. 

The crowd was clustered around the door in a horseshoe, cheering and applauding. Roy strode to the front, just in time to see Catalina hop into Havoc’s lap, shoes in one hand. He spun, and, cheek to cheek, they gave the crowd a victory salute. Roy grinned and waved, and the crowd whooped, and Breda held the door open and waved them out like a butler. Then they were gone out into the night, married, off to a fancy hotel room and a fragment of the joy they deserved. 

Inside the pub, the crowd dispersed. Ed wasn’t among them. Roy saw Riza, her arm around Miles’ waist. He tucked a bit of hair behind her ear and she leaned into it, happy and ordinary. Now Roy did feel the corners of his eyes stinging. He had the sudden impulse to tap Riza on the shoulder, to take her to the bar and confide the whole wretched thing. She would be there for him, as always. He could confess his mistakes, they could remind each other of the pact they shared, of the plan that always took precedence over private fulfilment. 

She turned around, looked him right in the eye, and cocked her head in question. And he instantly knew he couldn’t do that to her. She deserved her piece of happiness too; but she sometimes didn’t think so, and he’d be damned if he was going to remind her of that. He raised his hand, and gave her his best boyish grin. She cocked her head again - she saw through the smile, of course - but then she waved, and nodded, and turned away again. 

Roy walked home alone in the warm summer night: tipsy, melancholy, and only a little self-pitying.

***

Havoc was woken, slowly, by Rebecca moving around on the bed. He shoved his face back into the pillow, thinking vaguely about work.

Rebecca’s hand ruffled his hair. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

“What time is it?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ve got the day off.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

He smiled without opening his eyes. “Oh, yeah.” His hand wandered over the warm, smooth skin of her back, her side, her butt. "Can I persuade you back into bed for a while?"

"You can persuade me anywhere, honey," she said, and slotted herself into his arms. 

They stayed like that for a while, but Havoc didn't really sleep. Becky fell asleep almost immediately, spooning back into him. Havoc curled his arm around her belly and enjoyed the warm skin of her back, the crisp, fancy-hotel sheets, the rare chance to lay around and just be there. Life was funny. Two years ago, he'd checked into this exact hotel room, up in Central for the weekend to visit his old army buddies. He'd thought he was invalided out for good; he'd had no idea what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Now that he looked back on that time, he could see how he'd found things piece by piece. Opening up the throttle on his car for the first time, feeling the wind and the speed and the road peeling away behind him, and thinking _I can go wherever I like_. A job that needed doing, and that no one else to do, and that, it turned out, he was really pretty good at. A beautiful, funny girl who liked him enough to wear stilettos for his first day back at work; a girl he could talk to like he'd known her all her life; a girl who could obliterate a rifle target and rock a little black dress; a girl who looked at him like she couldn't believe her luck; who looked at him the way he looked at her. 

And now here he was, married: very, very happily married if he could go by the first twenty four hours. 

The future might be pretty fucking uncertain, but the present was pretty damn good.

Rebecca stirred next to him, stretched like a cat. "Hello, wife," Havoc said. 

She sat up and ruffled his hair. "Hello, husband. I'm gonna order up a coffee, you want one?"

Havoc considered it. "I might. I don't know, maybe I could sleep more. It's not like we get the chance much."

"Hey, go for it. Yesterday was pretty exhausting, and today we’ve got a whole day in a hotel suite with nothing to do but order room service and be merry.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. "That was an innuendo, by the way."

"I got it," said Havoc, and pulled her in for a good morning kiss. When they pulled away, Rebecca came back in and gave him a quick peck on the nose. Then she hopped off the bed. 

Havoc closed his eyes again for a moment, then opened them. He turned onto his back, decided he was awake now for sure, and hauled himself up in bed. He glanced over to get an eyeful of his lovely, naked wife. 

Rebecca was standing by the door of the hotel room, the morning paper in her hands. She was staring at it. She did not look happy. 

“Becky?”

She looked up, then walked over to the bed without saying anything. 

The newspaper landed on his lap, a little too hard. Havoc picked it up, turned it over. 

The headline said _World’s End Stars Jailed. Controversial show banned, director and actors charged with inciting treason._

“The World’s End Revue,” Havoc murmured. “The cabaret? Treason?” 

“Well,” Rebecca said, “shit.” 

She joined him on the bed. He spread the paper out, and together they read the whole story. It had happened last night, right around when they cut the cake. 

“Hakuro’s charging people with treason now?” Havoc sighed forcefully. “This is stepping over the line so far, the line’s in another county.”

“Plus, acting like he’s Fuhrer already,” said Rebecca. “That can’t be good news.”

Havoc thumbed the sleep out of his eyes, wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her a little squeeze. “I guess it’s a work day after all. You think we can get that room service breakfast to go?”

***

“But how can we? We don’t even know where the Homunculus is right now!” Al was nearly shouting. Outside of a fight, Havoc didn’t think he’d ever heard the kid raise his voice in anger.

“Because - ah, Captains Havoc and Catalina.” Mustang turned to them. “I see you heard. I’ve opened this up for five minutes’ debate. Permission to speak freely and frankly.”

“We’re in minute three,” Hawkeye said. “Major Miles, you were next.”

“Thank you,” said Miles. “Look, regardless of the Homunculus situation, we’ll need to take action.” People made room for Havoc and Rebecca around the big meeting table. Someone passed Rebecca a chair. “Hakuro is calling Brigadier General Mustang’s bluff. If he doesn’t move, he’ll look weak. Hakuro knows how much military support we’re gaining, and he knows that if Mustang doesn’t act, it’ll make Hakuro look like the stronger leader.”

“Captain Ross,” said Hawkeye, pointing. 

“Yes,” said Ross. “And if the Brigadier General doesn’t act on this, he could lose a lot of the people’s support too. You saw those pamphlets I passed around, and the papers. That’s just how far the protest has got this morning. The World’s End Revue are turning into heroes.”

Fuery raised his hand. “There was graffiti on Parget Bridge this morning. Free Harry Valentina. Someone must have done it overnight.”

“We saw that too,” said Ed. 

“People are taking risks, real risks, to speak up about this,” Ross said. “We’ve actually got the power to do something about it. If it looks like we aren’t prepared to take those risks ourselves -” She shrugged. 

Rebecca stuck her hand up. “Am I missing something here? I mean, we came in late and all. Why are we even debating this? Why _wouldn’t_ the Brigadier General just step in and get them freed?”

“It’s a debate,” Hawkeye said, “because if Brigadier General Mustang does this, the provisional government is done. It loses its last scrap of credibility, the pact with Hakuro is broken, and we have to move for power. Immediately.”

“Well, Hakuro broke the pact already,” Havoc said. “Remember when he had my wife’s roomie murdered? Remember the gangs, and the assassins, and the freaking baby Homunculus? He’s playing chicken with us, he’s been doing it for months. Why wouldn’t we -” He stopped himself. “Okay, wait. We are missing something, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” said Hawkeye. “We’ve speculated as to why Hakuro might have done this now, and our best answer is, he’s gained confidence. We think he knows the location of Chrysalis and the Homunculus. They might even be back in Amestris. He’s close to gaining an unthinkable firepower advantage.”

“So why not just the full coup already? Why not sic the Homunculus on us right now?”

“We’ve been over that. He can’t have possession of it yet. But he’s losing military support fast, and he needs to take some action while he’s still a credible candidate for Fuhrer.”

“So, again, why are we debating this?” Rebecca threw her hands up. “Let’s get him before he gets ahold of his secret creepy alchemy weapon!”

“Because we’re not there yet!” Mustang said. He leaned forward, frowning furiously. “Two more weeks, just two, and we could have been in a position to take power without a drop of blood spilled. We're working on South and West, and we're getting somewhere. But if we take power tomorrow there’ll be civil war in the West, there could be civil war in the South. Not to mention that, as Major Hawkeye says, the Homunculus has to be close. If he got a hold of it while we were still fighting him -" 

“The casualties could be huge,” Ed said. “To give you an idea - some of you saw the last Homunculus in action. The rest of you got to experience what it was capable of. This Homunculus is smaller, but it’s more mobile. And it’s totally under the influence of its handler, but even he can’t control the scale of its attack once he’s sicced it on someone. Imagine a four year old kid with the power to level a city. This thing changes everything. It’s got to be our first priority. It -”

“Five minutes,” said Hawkeye. “The floor is closed. As you were.”

Ed tapped two fingers to his forehead. “Permission to speak freely!”

“Not granted,” said Mustang. “The floor is _closed_ , Major Elric.” 

Ed glared. The room was silent for a moment. 

“Thank you, everyone,” said Mustang. “Major Hawkeye, Major Miles, Captain Havoc: stay where you are. The rest of you are dismissed for now.”

Rebecca squeezed his shoulder as she left with the rest of them. After Fuery had filed out last and shut the door, Havoc said, “A hundred cenz says a few people are gluing their ears to the partition wall.”

Mustang ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not important. They’ll find out within the hour anyway, when we have to hand the order down.”

“So,” said Miles, “what options are on the table?”

“First option: we do nothing. Leaving aside questions of injustice, the practical risks are that the Brigadier General will look weak to the military and lose the public’s trust. And then there’s the high chance that Hakuro might gain charge of the Homunculus before we can,” Hawkeye said. “The advantage is that the provisional government might last a little longer. We could continue in our holding pattern and prioritise locating and targeting the Homunculus.”

“Or, second option. We free the World’s End Revue Seven and ride the surge in support for a few days until we can move for power cleanly. The risk is still very great that Hakuro might obtain custody of the creature before then, in which case we’d be looking at a bloody battle and probable defeat. The potential gain is that if we’re lucky, we can have our bloodless coup.” She paused for a moment. “Final option. We move directly for power. The risk here is probable civil war. We don’t have enough military backing to avoid it. The advantage here is that this option carries the least risk of Hakuro gaining the Homunculus before we move.” She shrugged fractionally. “It’s still a substantial chance, of course, but it’s the best we have. Does that cover everything, sir?”

“Yes, Major.” Mustang pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was admirably thorough.”

The room was silent for a long moment. Havoc massaged his temple with one thumb, trying to think it through. Any way they sliced it, they could be screwed. “Okay,” he said. “I’m probably still missing something here. But it seems to me like _do nothing_ is the option that will most definitely screw us over. In my opinion, sir, we’ve got to man up and take the risk.”

“I agree,” said Miles. “And there’s another angle we could look at this from. What are the risks and advantages of what Hakuro’s done, from his perspective?”

“Advantage,” Mustang said, “he knows we both wanted to avoid a war. Myself more than him, apparently. He’s playing on that, hoping he can humiliate me.”

“Risk,” Hawkeye said, “the general public start seeing him as a tyrant.”

“The Amestrian people are used to tyrants,” Mustang said. “I’d imagine he’s banking on that and believes they’ll see him as a strong leader. From what I can see, he’s got that wrong for a start.” He waved at the pamphlets and newspaper clippings littering the table. “The people have had a taste of freedom, these past two years. It looks like a lot of them like it enough to risk their necks for it. The wind’s changing in Amestris. The people are ready for something new.”

“Advantage,” said Hawkeye, “this is a lower risk way to challenge your authority. This way, he can look like he’s taking charge, with the good that does him, but still play for time until he gets charge of the Homunculus.”

“Risk,” said Havoc. “He knows we can pull off a coup, because we did it already. We’ve got form.”

Mustang held a hand up. “All right,” he said, “ _do nothing_ is off the table. Major Miles, after we’re done here, I want you to take an armoured car and ten soldiers to the Central Regional Correctional Facility, obtain the release of Harry Valentina and her colleagues, and have them escorted to Safe House B. We’re moving for power. The remaining question is how long a countdown we set. Opinions?”

“Twenty-four hours,” said Miles. 

“A week,” said Havoc.

Hawkeye looked at Mustang. She said, “Why not play it both ways? You said the wind was changing in this country. My sense is that Hakuro still doesn’t realise how fast it’s changing. If we wait more than a day, he’ll be expecting a week.”

“How long should we wait, in your view?” said Mustang. 

“Long enough for the mood to shift and support to swing our way, but not a moment longer, to minimise the chance that the Homunculus is in play. Forty-eight hours?”

Mustang rested his hands on his chin for a moment, and looked down. “Forty-eight hours.” He raised his chin, then pushed back his chair and stood. Miles and Hawkeye followed him up; Havoc set his shoulders. “It’s an order. Major Hawkeye, set the clock.”

Hawkeye snapped a salute. “Sir.”

Mustang raised a hand. “One last thing. You all realise, don’t you, how severe a risk we’re taking? These are far from ideal conditions. I’ll expect you all to check and double-check our contingency plans for retreat. If I’m taken out of action, command reverts to Major Hawkeye, then Major Miles, then Captain Havoc.”

Havoc snorted nervously. “We all better start praying I don’t end up in charge of the revolution.”

Miles twitched a grin. Mustang and Hawkeye stayed stony faced. Tough room. Havoc realised, belatedly, how very bad a sign it was that the Chief, for the first time in Havoc’s hearing or memory, had acknowledged the possibility that they could get killed doing this. 

In single file, they headed back into the main office. The crowd of Mustang’s department frantically attempted to stop milling around obviously and look busy. Then, as Hawkeye walked over to her desk, they gradually all stilled again and just watched her. 

The silence in the office was heavy and absolute as Hawkeye picked up the little alarm clock from her desk. She flipped on the alarm switch with a demonstrative gesture. She set the hour hand to four, the minute hand to eight. She raised the clock, then placed it on her desk. 

Mustang stepped forward and looked around the room. Rebecca had found her way over to Havoc, and she put her hand to the back of his neck. 

Mustang said, “I’ll be counting on all of you.” That was all. But that voice, that tone, took Havoc back: back to the day two months after his transfer to Mustang's unit, when the Chief had sat him down in the back office to tell him what they were really aiming for. 

Every soldier in the room, from Miles to Ed, snapped to attention and saluted in unison.

***

Roy debriefed with Riza at his mother's place, and walked home watchfully, with his gloves on. It was past eleven by the time he got in, and he hadn't had dinner. There were eggs in the icebox for an omelette, but on due consideration, he found that he couldn't be bothered. He put a couple of slices of bread under the grill and slumped at the kitchen table. They had checked and refreshed the plans exhaustively; now the details swam uselessly in Roy's head as he tried to wind down. The flat was so damn quiet. How odd it was to sit in the middle of his mundane clutter, knowing what was coming. The eggs in the icebox were stamped with a date a week from now. There'd be a new government by then. Perhaps it would be Roy. Perhaps he would be dead.

If only that conversation with Ed could have been avoided. Right now, they both could use the relief, the respite, the pleasure of each other's company. They could have worried about the meaning of it all after the revolution. Roy thought of the smell and the warmth of Ed's skin after a shower. He thought of his forthrightness, his unexpected patience as a teacher, of the athletic grace of his movements and the muscular swiftness of his mind. He felt sick with it all. This was why he'd tried not to make a habit of attaching to people. Now he'd given Ed and himself a broken heart to nurse. On the plus side, at least now Roy wasn't ruminating about the coup. But those things Ed had said, last night: could they be right? Why not try? True, it might fail, and that would cause them both pain - but weren't they both in pain now? The thought of putting a name to the sweet and nameless thing between them was uncomfortable, frightening even. Roy was a hypocrite, but perhaps there was nothing to be done about it. And in any case, Ed had left. Today, they hadn't spoken privately. It was over, most likely. Ed would never again come here to debate theory and leave candy wrappers on the study floor and eat takeout and pin Roy delightfully to his own bed. 

A smell drifted through the room: burning bread. Roy swore, and retrieved the toast. It was beyond scraping. Roy threw it in the garbage. He removed himself to his bedroom, to lie face down on his bed in his shirtsleeves, and try and sulk himself to sleep.

***

Ed felt like a creep, looking up at Roy’s window from the dark street. He felt like an idiot. But, he asked himself, how would he feel tomorrow if he didn’t go up? He’d say his piece, he thought. And then if Roy didn’t want him there, he’d leave right away. If Ed had learnt anything from the last time he'd lived through a great battle and the time before it, it was _make sure you say your piece while you've got the chance_. He'd bickered aimlessly with Greed and then they'd never spoken again; he'd assumed Hohenheim would be around to bug him forever, and he'd been wrong.

Roy opened the door: eyes shadowed, hair ruffled, in his shirt sleeves, just like it was any night. Then Ed noticed he was wearing the glove. 

“Just me,” Ed said. “Sorry about this.”

Roy folded his arms and just looked at him. He was staring Ed down, but all Ed could think was that he looked tired and sad. 

“I wanted to see you,” Ed said. 

Roy stepped aside and opened the door wider. “I have an early start,” he said. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed.”

Inside, they stood facing one another. Ed stuffed his hands in his pockets. He said, “Look. I know I shouldn’t have come here. I just don’t want to leave on a bum note, what with everything. You know?” 

“It’s okay,” Roy said. He smiled and put out a hand. “Friends?”

Ed just stared at the hand. Friends? Was that really how Roy felt about this thing that they had, the way their brains tuned to the same frequency, better and better with every meeting? It sure sounded like friendship. Friendship plus sex: that was what it was supposed to be. Ed couldn’t articulate what it was that illuminated it into a whole that was more than its parts. He felt like he wanted to open his chest and show Roy this feeling, to heave it out and say _look at this, this is what I’m talking about. Don’t you have this exact thing too?_

The hand was still held out. Ed shook his head. “I know it’s probably over,” he said. “I just - I came here to say some stuff. Because of what's going down the day after tomorrow. There were things I didn't say to people before the Promised Day, and after - well, they died, and, I've got some regrets about not saying those things."

Roy turned his face away for a moment. He said, “Are you sure you won’t regret saying them too? Sometimes it’s better. Not to.”

“It won’t take long. If you don’t want me to talk, I can go.” 

Roy’s voice was low. “I really don’t,” he said. 

Ed looked at Roy, and his chest hurt, and then Roy put his hands on Ed’s shoulders and hauled him forward, and Ed met him halfway. They kissed until they couldn’t breathe, and Roy walked them backwards, and Ed had them both mostly naked before they hit the edge of the bed. 

Afterwards, they lay tangled together quietly. After a while, Ed said in Roy’s ear, “You’re not doing a very good job of pushing me away.”

“I guess not.” Roy stroked a warm hand down the skin of Ed’s back. 

“Do you think it’s going to make you better at your job, being on your own? Because it won’t.”

Roy pulled back, looked Ed in the eye. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“Yes. Because if I die, or if you die, or whatever, I’m going to feel like a dick if we never talked about this.” Ed pulled in a breath and looked at Roy, but Roy didn’t say anything. “Can I say it? It won't even take long.”

Roy nodded. 

“Okay. I thought about it all last night, and today. If you don’t want to be with me it’s not gonna happen. I get that. I'm not expecting anything. But, it’s not about me, am I right? You won’t be with anyone.”

Roy had gone still next to him. “That’s probably right.”

“You’ve got the goals you’ve got because you fucked up. So you’ve put everything else on ice, right? I was the same.”

“Yes,” said Roy. “But you reached your goal. Mine might take my whole life.”

“So you’re putting everything else on hold forever. Is that it?”

Roy shrugged. “That may well be it.” 

Ed swallowed. “Okay. Then this is what I wanted to say. You have to live in the world to do some good in it, Roy. Distancing yourself from people isn’t going to make you a better human being, it’s going to make you a crappier one.”

Roy was silent for a moment. “Hughes used to say that,” he said. “Incessantly.”

“Well,” said Ed, “I agree with him.”

Roy shook his head. He laughed, but there wasn’t any malice in it. “So, you’re giving me the benefit of your life experience?”

Ed went up on one elbow. He poked Roy in the shoulder. “Don’t patronise me, you aging pervert!”

Roy just laughed again. 

“Actually,” said Ed, “I got that one from my old man. Who had about three centuries of life experience, so suck on that.”

That stopped Roy short. 

Ed said, “He said to Al one time, revenge doesn’t lead anywhere, even when it’s revenge against yourself. And he should know. He’d fucked up even bigger than either of us did.”

Roy was quiet for another moment. He put his hand into Ed’s hair and stroked it. Ed relaxed a little, and after another moment he put his cheek on Roy’s chest. Now the tension had gone out of him, and Roy’s skin smelled good, and he felt like he was home. 

Roy said, “He was a remarkable man. I wish I’d had the chance to know him better.”

Ed said, “Me too.” And he meant it. 

They didn’t talk again for a long time. They lay in each other’s arms, and dozed. When they woke, Roy said, “Will you stay?”

“Yeah,” Ed said. 

“I’ll get us some glasses of water,” said Roy. He kissed Ed on the forehead and went out. 

When he returned with the water and handed one glass to Ed, Ed said, “Will you try this for real, with me? After the day after tomorrow, if it all works out, whatever.”

Roy pulled in a breath, and he frowned, and he seemed to draw inwards for a moment. 

He looked at Ed. 

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll try, for real. With you.” 

They slept in each others’ arms, slotted together with satisfying rightness. As he drifted off, Ed heard Roy’s heartbeat and imagined his heart muscle, squeezing in rhythm, pumping the blood around his body. 

They had one more day.


	11. Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the countdown hits zero.

“ _Dear Mom and Papa_ ”, Rebecca read aloud. “ _If you’re reading this -_ jeez, this is so weird. I feel like I’m writing a suicide note.”

Next to her at the dining table, Jean groaned and dropped his head in his hands. “Don’t. I feel so guilty. This sucks. This letter is my ma’s worst nightmare. Her dad dies in the Battle of Akrai, her husband dies in a threshing accident, her son joins the army and comes home with a broken back. She begged me not to go back into the military, and this is the exact thing she predicted would end up happening. The exact thing!”

Rebecca leaned in and ruffled Jean’s hair, hoping to get a half-smile. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

Jean groaned again. “ _Dear Ma. Uncle Robert was right, I am an asshole._ ”

“You are not! You’re, like, the opposite of an asshole! Whatever that is.”

Jean leaned his head on one hand. “Well, at least at this rate we’re just gonna have to survive. Because these letters are going to suck.”

***

“I’m fine,” said Winry. “Still fine since Ed asked me five minutes ago.”

“Okay then,” said Al, a little too brightly. “I’m gonna say ‘bye now too. Take care, okay? And say hi to Paninya, and Mr Garfiel, and Warrant Officer Brosch, and Simon and the Spitzer Clinic girls -“

“I got it. ‘Hi’s for everyone,” she said. “We miss you too. And hey - you two take care of yourselves too. All right? Bye!” 

Winry put the phone back in its cradle and unwound her index finger from the cord. Her heart hammered, and she breathed in slow through her nose. When it came to her, Ed and Al were still such crappy liars. At least it came in handy for when they _wanted_ her to see through it. Screw Hakuro and his spies for depriving her even of a proper - whatever it was. She did not want to call it a farewell. 

She looked over to the stairs, where Mr. Garlfiel was sitting, chin cupped carefully in one palm. 

“So?” he said. 

“Yeah,” Winry said. She let a big rush of breath out. “It’s not like they could tell me over the phone, the line’s tapped. But yeah. Looks like it’s go time. Tomorrow, I bet. They always leave these calls until the second before they’re about to do something crazy.” She paused again, drawing herself together. This whole business was giving her the nastiest _déja vu_. Ed and Al must be feeling that. Everyone else too, probably. Thank goodness that this time, she had something else to do but sit on her butt, sleepwalking her way through clinic duty with one eye on the sky. 

“So,” she said, “Go time for us too. Do you think tonight’s enough time to spread the word?”

“I think that should be ample, Winry dear.” 

Winry leaned back against the wall. Everything was very suddenly getting real, and it felt like a weight landing on her shoulders. “Are _we_ about to do something crazy?” she said. 

“My dear,” Mr Garfiel said, “we are already pretty established in the business of crazy. That’s what makes us so good at it.” And he tipped her a wink.

***

“Fuck this shit!” Ed yelled, throwing his hands up. “Fuck it right in the ear!”

“I don’t like it either,” said Al. 

“But, you’re going along with it!”

“Because it makes sense! I knew you’d get mad. You always -“

“No, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do!”

Al had just broken the news that he was not going to Headquarters with Ed the next morning. 

Ed threw himself down on the sofa, pouted his lower lip out, folded his arms. Al gave him a moment. And, just like always, he started to think it through. 

“So,” Ed said, “what happens if they break out the Homunculus?” 

“First off,” Al said, “if they did, we have no way of knowing if it’d be near HQ at all. The brigadier general’s guys searched the tunnels again and got nothing. More to the point, none of that matters if I give the coup away by showing up with you tomorrow. You know how obsessive the guys tailing us are getting. They’ve got my schedule down. I agreed to take that class as a big favour to Professor Mackintosh. If I don’t go because I’m headed to HQ with you, what do you _think_ they’re going to think is up?”

“I don’t like it,” said Ed, in that slow voice that meant he was starting to concede the point. 

“Neither do I,” Al said. “But if we don’t have surprise, we don’t have anything.” 

Ed folded his arms more. “Quoting Roy at me won’t win you this one,” he said. “Don’t tell me this was his idea and he was holding out on me.”

“No, Brother,” said Al. “It was my idea.”

Ed looked at him, and blew a resigned breath up to ruffle his bangs. “Of course it was your idea.”

Al shuffled. Now he felt guilty. “I’ll only be starting twenty minutes after you,” he said. “Surprise only matters until Mustang’s announced it all over the radio. If you get yourself assigned to Team Foxtrot when we go to Phase Two, you can help me blockade the railway stations.”

“Yay,” said Ed without enthusiasm. “Look,” he said, “if shit goes down at HQ, just promise me you’ll get your ass over there right away.”

“Of course I will,” Al said, with feeling. “I promise.” He put his fist out, and Ed hauled himself off the sofa to bump it. 

Well, that was one more difficult conversation done. Al looked back at the letter in his hands, blew on it for a moment to dry the ink, then folded it and stuck it to an envelope. He dropped the envelope on top of the wicker basket at his feet. 

The basket meowed. 

“I know you’re feeling abandoned right now,” said Al, “but Bao-Yu is gonna take really good care of you. I’ve told her all your favourite things to eat, and I’m giving her your toys and your favourite blanket, so it’ll even still smell like home!”

“That letter is basically a monograph,” Ed said. “How can it possibly be that complicated? He sleeps on the same spot on the couch for twenty-three hours of the day, and for the other hour he crams his face with tuna. If we’re late to dinner with Teacher, you get to tell her it was because you had to write a dissertation on how to open a can of fish once a day.”

“Teacher appreciates the value of doing things thoroughly,” Al said. 

Ed snorted. “Anyway, how are you even doing this with these amazing assholes tailing you?”

“We worked out a cover story,” Al said. “I’m supposed to be giving him to a friend because our landlord found out.”

Ed nodded, then narrowed his eyes fractionally. “You’re buddies with spy chick now?”

“Bao-Yu and Vanessa have got their safe house all set up,” Al said, dodging the question. “They were the most sensible option. Besides, she offered.” Al picked up the basket and held it up for Ed. It meowed sadly again. “Say goodbye to Zozimos, brother. Tell him how much you’re going to miss him and that we’ll see him soon.” 

“Later, Predator,” Ed said. “You should work on your survival skills while you’re hiding out. Learn to catch some food that didn’t come out of a can.” 

_Meow_ , said the basket. 

“Boys,” said Teacher. Ed and Al both jumped hard. Why didn’t she ever believe in knocking? 

“Hi, Teacher,” Al managed. “I thought we were meeting you at the restaurant?”

“You two really still haven’t named that cat?”

“Uh,” said Al. 

“We’re talking it over,” said Ed. 

“We’re having some creative differences,” said Al. 

Izumi rolled her eyes. Then she crouched down and peered into the basket. It meowed. 

“Brian,” she said. “You should call him Brian.”

“Brian,” said Ed. “Huh.”

“I like it,” Al said. And he really did. “Hello, Brian!” he said to the basket. 

_Meow_ , said the basket, in the saddest voice in the world.

***

Gracia wasn’t shouting. That was the worst of it, she wasn’t even annoyed. She was just saying no. “Just like that?” she said. “Am I supposed to walk out of work when I’m booked in on the rota for the next four days -“

“Call in sick, then! Please -”

“Roy.” She shook her head and smiled at him. “You should know better by now. If things - if there’s - disruption, chaos, I don’t know what, but do you know how overloaded Mercer Hospital would be?”

“I do, actually.” Roy curled his hands around his cup of tea and frowned. Why was it that he could persuade a crowd of officers into committing treason for him, but he couldn’t argue one civilian friend into getting out of town for two days? “But it’s not that. There are risks we can’t control, and if something goes wrong - I told you before, the enemy have a file on you, Gracia. If things go - badly - tomorrow, you’re at risk.”

Gracia blew a breath upwards into her bangs. “I know. And I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do. But from what you’ve said - I know you’ll do everything you can to prevent it, but - but. You know I’m ward sister now, right?”

Roy started. He hadn’t. “Congratulations. I’m sorry, I’ve gotten so out of touch -“

Gracia waved it off. “I know, I know why, don’t worry about that. But anyway. I’m in charge. In the emergency room. And if there’s a citywide emergency, we all just go straight to work. That’s procedure. If we have the day off, if we’re on vacation, it doesn’t matter. All hands on deck. Like you.”

Roy shut his eyes for a moment. There was pressure in his throat, behind his eyelids. If he didn’t give it any room, it would calm itself in a moment. 

Gracia’s hand touched his knee. “I’ll send Elysia to her grandparents,” she said. “I can put her on the train first thing tomorrow morning.”

Roy nodded. Gangly little Elysia, asleep in her bedroom next door, with her scuffed knees and her piles of books and her father’s sharp eyes. 

“Thank you,” Gracia said, into the silence. 

Roy half-laughed, and shook his head. “You don’t have to say that. I’ll always tell you, whenever I can.”

“No, not that,” Gracia said, looking him in the eye. “Thank you for seeing this through.”

For a fractional instant, Roy felt like he couldn’t keep it together. Then he smiled. “Well, you know me, I’m an obsessive lunatic.”

Gracia looked how Roy felt. Her eyes widened and her mouth compressed, and then a moment later, she managed a smile. 

The moment of silence was just long enough for Roy’s brain to jolt into processing the abstract fact he’d always known: it wasn’t just the people he loved who were in danger here. He could die doing this. Tomorrow.

***

The place was not to her tastes, in many ways. When it came to nature, Olivia had always preferred the sublime to the merely pretty. She had been highly indifferent to weeping willows, and birdsong, and fields of wild flowers. But as a child, she’d moored her rowboat on this island and built a fort in the ancient oak, and here in the long summers home from school, she and Alex and their sisters had fought each other here in mock-battles. So it was here, in privacy and peace, that the Armstrongs had chosen to bury her. 

Perhaps it would never have come to this, Alex thought, had she lived. Olivia had always had too much courage, just as he had always had too little. She had been bold and headstrong and stubborn, and proud of all those things. They had brought her to the violence and splendour of the Northern frontier, and to a brilliant career, and to aiming her sword at the very top, and finally to the hero’s death she had acted out as a child in the meadow here, all those summers ago. 

He had not been by her side, that day. His penance had been to act the part of a broken man for two wretched years: to listen and wait and spy in silence, in defiance of his temperament, his breeding and his legacy. But his orders were given, and the wheel was finally turning. Tomorrow morning, he would be unshackled. He was relieved and grateful and horribly afraid that his strength, unused for so long, would fail the test. 

Olivia had never been much for religion, either. She would scoff at him for it, but he felt close to the gods in these woods. So he burned the herbs he had brought with him on her grave, and knelt touching the good earth, and prayed to god and goddess for a little of his sister’s courage.

***

Now that they were on the up and up, Roy had apparently shed any previous inhibitions about getting sappy after sex. Right now, he was a warm, smiley weight flopped half on top of Ed: smoothing Ed's hair back, kissing his eyelids, the corners of his mouth, his temples. 

Ed would poke Roy right in the ribs if he wasn’t enjoying himself so much. 

"I love your mouth,” Roy said, “it’s perfect."

"If you start singing at me," said Ed, "I'm calling the cops."

Roy narrowed his eyes. "You know," he said, "some people would argue that if you're truly secure in your masculinity you don't need hang-ups about private expressions of affection."

Ed tutted. "I don't have hang-ups! I just let you privately express your affections to me all bent over with my face in the couch cushions. Look, I still have a dent in my cheek, how's that for no hang-ups!"

Roy laughed, and gave him a big annoying smooch in the dent. 

Ed had been here before. Right now, his dignity was making its last stand; but he knew it was toast. He might as well admit it. “Okay,” he said. “Seriously. You know how I feel, right? Sometimes it’s so much I feel like I’m gonna puke.” 

So, he could have put that better. Roy gave him an incredulous look, with a broad hint of affection round the edges. "Poetic. Really?"

"No, really! Don't laugh at me either, I hate it.” He shuffled a bit. It was always difficult to stay in place when he felt off-kilter. "Sometimes I just think about - if something bad happened to you, and I nearly toss my cookies. I just get like that, it's stupid, I know it's stupid, about the people I really give a shit about and … yeah." He cut his losses and shut up. 

Roy didn't say anything for a moment. Ed hadn't been looking at him while he'd been saying all that. Now he looked up into Roy's face and immediately saw that he got it. Ed’s chest panged. How amazing was that, that Ed could say something so weird and express it so badly, and Roy just _got it_?

"It's terrifying," Roy said quietly, “isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ed said. The corners of his eyes were prickly. He couldn’t hold out any more. He leaned up, kissed Roy on the forehead, cupped Roy’s cheek in his hand. Goodbye dignity, it’s been nice. “Hey,” he said. “Tell me you’re bulletproof.”

“That,” Roy said, “would be a bit of a fib.”

“Yeah,” Ed said, “but just say it anyway. Tell me it’ll work tomorrow. Tell me we can’t fail. Tell me that you and Al and everyone we know is indestructible.” 

Roy looked at him and said nothing. He put a warm hand to the back of Ed’s head, stroked the top of Ed’s ear with his thumb. 

“You won’t jinx it,” Ed said. “Because there’s no such thing as a jinx. That’s just magical thinking. We can get our blood racing and push ourselves and not take anything for granted and get in the zone. But that’s what we do tomorrow morning. Tonight, we just need to sleep. That’s the best way to be ready. Then we’re going in tomorrow and we’re going to do this thing like badasses, with everything we’ve got. And then.” And by this time tomorrow, it would all be done.

“All right,” Roy said. “Everyone is indestructible. I’ve handed down a standing order to all of them not to die. And you know what an obedient bunch of subordinates I have.”

“See,” said Ed, “Fixed. That wasn’t so hard, huh?” He forced a smile out of his face. Then Roy kissed him, and that was easier, and then they lay in each others’ arms and watched the scarce minutes tick away.

***

_Dear Mom and Papa,_

_I’ve left this letter with Lucia, and if she’s given it to you, that means something went wrong. That I got myself killed, or things went badly, or both. Obviously that’s not what the plan is. I’d much rather that Jean and I and all our favourite people come out of all this without a scratch, and that in a month or two we’ll be kicking back on that honeymoon we never got time for. But if that doesn’t happen, I figured you guys deserve an explanation from me._

_Papa, I know you and Mom’s parents came to this country hoping for a better life. I know how hard you guys worked to give me and Lucia that, and I want you to know how grateful I am. I don’t know how great I’ve been at showing it all these years, but I really am. I’m sorry I didn’t call often enough. I’m sorry I’ve put you through this. And I’m sorry I’m writing this in a letter instead of telling you in person. Partly I didn’t want you to know things that could get you in trouble, but if I’m honest I think it might have been too hard to look you in the eye and say this stuff. It’s hard enough writing it._

_I don’t know what kind of things you’ll be hearing about Mustang right now, and goodness knows I’ve ranted often enough about what a crazy-making C.O. he is. But the thing is, I believe in him. There’s a reason that Jean and I, and Riza, and everyone else, will go to these ridiculous lengths for him. We believe he can do it. And we want a better life too, for everyone._

_I know that we might not succeed. If we don’t, though, someone else will, one day. I really believe that. Even if we fail this time, then we’ve started something. It’ll be up to someone else to pick up where we left off._

_I love you guys. Thank you for everything. And Mom, you make the best Torta della Nonna in the universe. Fact._

_Love,  
Rebecca._

***

Business as usual: the next morning, Roy went to work around seven hundred hours. He walked instead of driving, but the weather was very fine, so that wasn’t so strange. He strolled with his hands in his pockets, sweating a little into his gloves. 

At seven fifteen, the two adjoined offices were only a little emptier than usual at that time of day. Riza sat at her desk, going over her in-tray with a cup of coffee. Miles had his nose buried in a report. Breda procrastinated over his latest move at the office chessboard. Fuery tried to sneak Hayate a biscuit, and Riza spotted him. Major Armstrong dropped by with a stack of paperwork for Falman, and stayed to explain it. Fuery popped out on his usual bacon sandwich supply run, and Ross went along to help him carry the coffees. Soldiers made phone calls, filed filing, typed memos. Everyone looked busy. The clock ticked. 

At seven twenty nine, Roy got up and walked over to the door. He stood there, back straight, while one by one, every soldier in the two offices put down their paperwork and coffee, came to the front of the room, and stood at attention. By his side, Roy saw Riza discreetly looking everyone over, checking they had what they needed. From the corner of his eye he saw her nod to him. 

Roy raised his arm and beckoned, and his people followed him. 

The walk between Roy’s department and Meeting Room 4F took around six minutes. HQ wasn’t quite full at this hour; they took a quieter route, and only passed a few people on the way. Their little squad generated mild interest, but Roy saw no panic. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to move in groups; it was likely they were heading to greet a dignitary, or to some kind of training exercise. Even their rifles were no cause for alarm. Hayate, trotting along with them at Riza's heels, made them look still more everyday: only someone who knew the little dog better might notice his tucked ears and the droop of his tail. 

At the t-junction of a corridor, their group split into two. Major Miles peeled off in the direction of the Communications Room, and a team of ten followed him. As they went, Roy felt a bump against his shoulder. He glanced and saw Ed, looking at him for a fragmentary moment as he passed. He mouthed something that Roy didn’t quite catch. Then he was gone with Miles and the rest of them, and Roy was marching forward once again, setting his face and trying to push it all down.

Their little squad stopped at the corner before the meeting room. Riza popped a dentist’s mirror round the corner for a moment, then held up four fingers. Four men on the door: as expected. Roy nodded at Major Armstrong. He walked ahead. 

“Excuse me,” Roy heard Armstrong say, “but I have a memo for Colonel Wells. Is she in the meeting?”

“Sorry, sir,” said one of the guards, “this is a confidential meeting.”

“But this is most urgent! She will need to give it her _immediate_ attention.”

“I _am_ sorry, sir,” said another guard, not sounding it, “but we have orders. This meeting isn’t to be interrupted.”

“I must protest!” Armstrong boomed. Give the man his dues, he could act. “This is an emergency -“

That was their cue. As Roy swung around the corner, fingers poised to snap, he saw two of the men hit the floor, felled by what looked like a simultaneous left and right haymaker from Armstrong. A third guard was bringing his gun up; Roy saw Armstrong going for him and shifted his attention to the fourth. The fourth guard’s right hand was still behind his back, drawing his sidearm - but he had stopped moving. The guard raised his free hand. Roy glanced into his peripheral vision. As he thought: Riza had the man covered. Armstrong had the fourth man in a headlock: limp, feet trailing the floor. He lowered the guard, carefully, to the floor and disarmed him. 

The remaining guard looked at Roy with unadulterated terror. Roy walked up to him and looked him in the eye. He mouthed, “Co-operate, and you have nothing to fear.” The guard nodded fractionally. Breda cuffed him, then gagged him, and stood him against the opposite wall, where his comrades lay. Roy pointed at Lamacq and Sullivan, and they covered the guards, conscious and unconscious, with their sidearms. 

The corridor was very silent. Riza and Roy listened at the double doors for a moment. They could hear the muffled sounds of business as usual: no alarm in the voices, just a dull meeting running its course. 

Roy counted them down from five with his left hand. Riza and he each put a hand to one of the doorknobs. Four, three, two, one - and on zero they shoved the doors mightily, and they were in. 

And that was it. Back to back, they had the room covered. The five officers at the table sat just as they were, papers and pens in hand, frozen like rabbits. Their eyes darted around, taking in the exciting array of weaponry pointed at their heads. 

Roy had been waiting for this moment for two years, and longer. He looked Major General Hakuro right in the eye. And he grinned. 

Hakuro said nothing. He looked at Roy with open hatred. But after years of mutual contempt filtered through necessary politenesses, it was a positive pleasure to see the real thing. 

“This can’t possibly be a surprise,” Roy said. 

“It isn’t,” Hakuro said. His tone was shut down. 

Roy could afford honesty now - and he could afford a moment, too, couldn’t he? “Two years ago,” he said, “you had Fuhrer Grumman murdered. Remember that? I haven’t forgotten. It would have come to this back then, but we made an agreement. I didn’t break it. You did.”

Hakuro said nothing. He was red in the face, sour, contained. 

The room was very silent. Roy stepped forward and continued. “You’re afraid of alchemists, and of their creations, and of what happened on Eclipse Day, so you hired one of the worst of them to make your own Homunculus.” His voice was getting louder, without his permission. He tried to control it. “You let him murder human beings to feed it. You let him hire gangsters at the taxpayer’s expense and use them to murder anyone who investigated, up to and including Major Hawkeye. You are not fit to be in charge of this country, and you aren’t going to be in charge of it.” 

Hakuro’s expression didn’t change at all. Roy’s anger was a burning tangle of impulses, a pressure behind his eyes. Riza was a tense presence at his left shoulder. Roy drew in a breath. “I’ll be making sure you get a fair trial,” he said. “I doubt that will do you any favours.”

He leashed his temper, and turned to her, to the rest of his men. “Target Bravo secured,” he said. 

“Dino, take fifteen men,” Riza said. “Get the guards from outside. Lock and barricade the room, keep this location secure and wait for further orders. We’ll try to get orders and reinforcements to you in ten. Here’s the room key.” She tossed it to Falman. 

“Search the room and everyone in it, while you’re at it,” Roy said. “Anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, and as soon as you get word Comms is secure, I want you to radio us. Got it?”

Dino saluted crisply. 

Then they were on the move again. Their squad was smaller now and less cause for attention: merely himself, Riza, Armstrong, Breda, and two troopers. They passed a little early morning traffic, officers and clerks starting work early, with no notion yet what had begun to happen here. 

Roy caught Riza’s eye as they walked, and he could tell already she’d noticed what he had. “We’re in trouble,” he said. 

She nodded. “Agreed. We’ll need to keep moving fast.”

“Wait, what?” Breda frowned at them. “That was textbook back there, sir. How could we have got it done any faster?”

“No, Hakuro took that far too quietly,” Roy said. “I’ve seen him in dire straits before. It’s absolutely unlike him to keep his temper so well. He thinks he - has an advantage we don’t know about.” No, more than that. He looked like he thought he could still win. 

Rook strode up, radio set strapped to his back, holding out the handset. Riza took it and put it to her ear with her free hand. 

Roy leaned in and heard Miles’ voice echoing into the corridor through the static. There were voices in the background. “ _Echo is secure, I repeat, secure.” They had Comms. Good. And now the lines were open, and they could make use of them, at least in code. “Alpha, what’s happening at your end?_ ” 

“Bravo clear and locked, zero down on our end. You?”

“ _Zero - zero. See you soon._ ” Roy’s chest tightened briefly. 

Inside the comms centre, all was well. Miles was covering the door; when he saw them, he lowered his gun, grinned and tapped two fingers to his forehead. At one side of the large room, several officers and clerks sat gagged and cuffed to chairs. A number of the others were, as anticipated, co-operating cheerfully. A young trooper with her hair scraped into a ponytail gave a thumbs up to Ed, who was lounging in front of a microphone. 

Ed caught Roy’s eye, then spoke into the mike. “Ross, how’s it going at Radio Capital?”

“Bearing up,” said Ross’ voice over a loudspeaker. She sounded positively relaxed.

Through the background noise, someone else called out, “We were wondering when you guys were going to show!” 

Someone else added, “We had a slate on the date and everything!”

Well, at least some people were having a good time right now. Ed caught Roy’s look and cleared his throat. “Okay, we’ve gotta keep things moving fast over here. You ready to go live?”

Fuery’s voice replaced Ross’s at the end of the line. “Everything’s prepared, sir. Your excellency?” It sounded weird to Roy’s ears. “We’ll count you down from ten.”

Roy elbowed Ed out of the way, and he ceded the mike with a grin. Roy got himself seated comfortably, took the sip of water someone offered, breathed deep. 

This was the moment things really tipped. In a few seconds, everyone in Headquarters, everyone in the city would know what they were doing. 

A successful coup is an exercise in sleight of hand, and a study in speed as military advantage. Move fast enough, keep moving, and tell the world you’ve taken charge. And if you’ve judged it right, if you have enough silent supporters and undecided wait-and-see-ers, if you can keep locking down your targets quickly enough, if you can keep out of your enemies’ reach in the meantime - then your words will come true. 

Of course Roy had practiced his speech a few dozen times. That helped. A bit. 

Three - two - one - and -

“Good morning. This is Brigadier General Roy Mustang speaking to you on behalf of the Amestrian army.”

The first time Roy spoke on the radio was soon after his appointment at East. He stumbled. Grumman never let him hear the end of it. Stumble during a live broadcast and you’ll sound like you don’t know your ass from your elbow - and everyone will hear you. 

He ignored the memory and the twinge of nerves, and went on. “Everyone listening to this broadcast remembers Eclipse Day. Two years ago, the leaders of this country proved themselves unfit to lead.” 

He kept talking: slowly, calmly, feelingly. He had the speech off by heart. He looked at Riza, pretended he was rehearsing with her, just one more time. 

“They licensed and commissioned the building of illegal alchemical weapons. Weapons so powerful and so uncontrollable that they endangered the whole country. Good people died to stop them. Terrible sacrifices were made.”

He looked at Major Armstrong and saw his moustache starting to quiver already. He looked at Ed and saw the light in his eyes, trusting and brilliant and dangerous. 

“Since that day the government of this country has been a temporary one. This has been a time of compromise, and transition, and rebuilding. That time is now over. In these two years, many among the Amestrian people have spoken out against tyranny. We have heard you. I regret to tell you that we have recently discovered that Major General Hakuro and his supporters have been engaged in the building of illegal and taboo alchemical weapons, of a power and deadliness equivalent to those which were used on Eclipse Day. The evidence is incontrovertible. Hakuro and those responsible are under arrest. We have effected a change in government. Please stay calm. There is nothing to fear.” 

He wondered if Mrs Curtis was listening from her hotel, or if Harry Valentina and her colleagues would be listening from their safe house. He wondered if Katie Flowers’ parents could hear him. 

“I want you to know right now who we are, and what we stand for. We in the new government stand against tyranny, and brutality, and injustice. Against isolationism, against murder and violence conducted by the state or by the individual, against lives lived in continual fear, against communities shattered or impoverished or living under the shadow of violence, against the use of science to destroy lives and prop up tyranny.” 

He thought of Gracia listening at the nurses’ station, of Havoc and Catalina parked out in the suburbs and waiting for the call to action. He thought of all the people he wanted to hear him who couldn’t. He imagined Hughes, Grumman, General Armstrong, Hohenheim, standing just behind his shoulder. Waiting.

“We stand for justice, stability, industry, diplomacy, culture, trade. We stand for peace and stability at every border of this nation. We stand for science used in the service of humanity, for the extension of knowledge and improvement of lives. This country is ready to work for change and to invest in hope. We in this new government promise to work alongside you to those ends, to the best of our ability.” 

“You have nothing to fear. Travel and communications may be disrupted for a short time. Please keep unnecessary journeys to a minimum. Stay calm, and keep your radios tuned. There will be more announcements throughout the day. Take care. Good morning.”

Roy clicked the microphone off. For a moment, there was ringing silence. Then Fuery’s voice over the loudspeaker. “It went out, sir. Loud and clear.”

The room erupted in applause. Roy breathed for a moment, then grinned, and stood, and looked around - and saw Breda, gripping a radio handset, white-faced. 

“Sir,” Breda said. “You were right. We’ve got a problem.”

***


	12. The Signal Flare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It matters not how strait the gate ...

“ _-Stay calm, and keep your radios tuned. There will be more announcements throughout the day. Take care. Good morning._ ”

Jean was grinning like a lunatic. Rebecca was pretty sure she was doing the same. They’d pulled it off. Not that she’d doubted them for a minute, but still. Yes! Go freaking team. She raised her fist and he bumped it. 

“Woo hoo!” she whispered. 

“Yeah!” he whispered back. “Right on! Amazing. I really want to beep the car horn right now.”

They could not beep the car horn. They were parked in a quiet lane of a leafy suburb, on the southern edge of the city, two hundred yards from the southern military transport depot. Another half hour or so, if things went well, and they would be in action: taking command of the southern military transport depot, getting roadblocks set up around the city’s edges. Rebecca couldn’t wait. They both hated the part where you sat around watching the clock tick.

Rebecca put a hand to her chest. “Whoah,” she said. “I had no idea how tense I was until right now. Aaaaah.”

Jean put a hand up. “Not yet,” he said. “This is only phase one. Don’t jinx it!”

“I’m not, I’m not! Okay, touch wood.” They both grabbed the walnut dashboard at once. 

“Fingers crossed,” said Jean, and did so.

Of course, there was also the possibility that they were going to be escaping roadblocks today, not making them. If the signal to retreat went up, they would be heading south full-throttle, hopefully before the bad guys got their fat asses in gear. But with any luck, not. With any luck, today would be spent spreading the net out to catch bad guys, and by tonight she could call her sister and tell her to rip up that stupid letter and crack open the fizz. 

“Are you going to start praying now?” said Rebecca. “Although I guess now’s the time, if ever.”

“Kind of.” Jean looked sheepish, and nervous, and wired. She squeezed his shoulder. “This stuff just kicks in, you know, moment of crisis. Are we good if I do it quietly?”

“It’s cool with me, buddy. Hell, I think I might join you.”

Fingers crossed, free hands linked, they took a moment.

Half a second after the moment was over, Jean had thumbed a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. Rebecca watched most of the tension drop out of his shoulders as he blew out the first lungful, and thought _fuck it_. She reached into Jean’s shirt pocket and asked him with her eyebrows. He nodded and she helped herself.

***

“The button was on the underside of the meeting table,” Dino said over the radio. “Wiring goes under the floor, and from there we don’t know.”

Roy scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Any answers from the man himself?”

“He’s not saying a word,” Dino said. “Asshole just started laughing at us.” Shit. This looked bad. 

“Keep trying,” Roy said. “We’ll radio further instructions.”

He hung up the receiver on Dino’s “Yes, sir”, and looked around him. “Thoughts?”

“That meeting room’s on the ground floor,” said Riza. “And the wiring goes downwards …”

“It could be just wired through to somewhere else on the same floor,” Breda said. 

“Or it could just go straight down,” Ed said. 

Roy shook his head. “We’ve searched the tunnels, we’ve searched them regularly.”

“But there are private houses with basements as well, all over town! We couldn’t search those. And we’re dealing with a guy who can make his own tunnels, he could pop one right through from a private basement to the bearded freak’s old network and he’d be golden!“

“I’m aware of that!” Roy snapped. “How is that helpful?”

“Look,” Riza cut in, “the first priority now is keeping Hakuro secure. Let me take a team down there, we’ll move him out of Headquarters a few minutes sooner than we planned, and -“

The loudspeaker crackled abruptly on. “ - request assistance, repeat, assistance, Echo, do you read?” There was noise in the background. A lot of noise. 

Someone shoved a handset at Roy. He held it to his mouth. “What’s the situation?” 

There wasn’t a reply. The moment lengthened. Roy listened to the background clamour. Gunfire. Human voices, in distress. And something -

“ _Mercury!_ ” It was Falman. 

“Oh no,” said Riza very quietly. _Mercury_ was their code-word for the creature. 

“Mercury! It’s coming through the floor! Five men down! Request assistance! repeat, assistance!”

“Got it!” said Roy. His heart vaulted halfway down his ribcage and back. “Is your location the same?”

“Yes,” Falman said, “But -”

The transmission cut. Just like that: no background noise, no signal breaking up. Just, abruptly, dead air and the hissing of static.

“The radio,” said Breda. “It must have taken a hit.”

“We’re moving,” Roy said. “Miles, take ten troopers and hold the fort here. Everyone else, with me.”

“Stay, Hayate,” added Riza. The little dog turned in a circle, but then obeyed his orders and sat at Miles’ feet.

They were prepared for a firefight; but things stayed clear for the first stage of the journey back, a straight run down one of the long corridors facing onto the courtyard. They covered each doorway as they passed. Some people seemed, as they’d predicted, to have holed up to wait this out for a while. The few soldiers they saw either immediately raised their hands in surrender, or saluted, or both. These were good signs. If they could establish their authority here now, then - 

Riza had put a hand to his arm. She jerked her head towards the window. Roy looked. 

Now, there was no question about what was happening.

From the ground floor, at roughly the location of Meeting Room 4F, black tentacles reached upwards and out, clinging to the building’s upper stories like ivy. Half the wall was gone. Rubble was everywhere. Smoke poured from the ruins. Gunfire sounded faintly across the courtyard. 

“Fuck,” said Ed, “it’s gotten bigger. A lot bigger.”

From behind Roy, Armstrong made a faint choking sound. 

Roy shook himself out of it. “Keep moving!” he yelled, trying to shock the rest of them back to life. 

It worked. They were in motion again. “Look ahead!” he said. “Don’t get distracted!”

Abruptly, a closed door was open, and there was a line of troopers with rifles ten yards directly ahead of them, taking aim. 

At almost exactly the same moment, three walls shot up from the floor. They nudged each other, grew outwards, shook under gunfire, and thankfully did not crumble. 

From his crouch, palms to the floor, Roy looked around him. He saw Armstrong first, crouching next to him, iron knuckles cracking the floor. Riza was still standing, good. “Any injuries?” Roy shouted. 

He’d barely got the words out before he saw the body behind Armstrong, slumped awkwardly against the wall. 

It was Ed. 

Half a second’s absolute horror, and then Ed was hissing, groaning, swearing under his breath. Breda got to him first, lowered him to the ground and shoved a bundled jacket under his head, chanting, “Sorry, Boss, I’ve got you, can you talk, where’re you hit?” 

Riza touched Roy’s shoulder. “We need to return fire,” she said. “Make me windows.” 

“Everyone down,” Roy called. Round holes in the defensive wall popped into existence, and a moment later, Riza and several officers were returning fire, and Armstrong’s fist hit the wall, doubtless some flashy and effective missile attack -

“Think it just got the automail,” Ed said. His face was scrunched, and his voice full of pain. “I’m fine, everyone stop acting like I’m dying or something.”

Roy scrambled over to him, looked him over as Breda checked him out. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” said Ed. He cycled his right shoulder, then hissed hard. 

“Boss, you’re bleeding,” Breda said. “Let me take a look.”

Ed waved Breda’s hands away, tapped his left hand to his right palm and snipped apart his shirt over the shoulder. Roy opened the shirt. There was bleeding around the edge of the brace, right by the nut under Ed’s clavicle. But it was only a trickle. 

“It just broke the skin,” Ed said. “I think it was the impact. I told you, the bullet’s in the automail. What the hell are you doing, Mustang? Get up there and make some fire.”

Roy’s suspicion was that Riza and Armstrong had already handled this group nicely. He was right. A quick glance confirmed every soldier in the group lay prone on the ground, most of them conscious and clutching injured limbs. Roy dropped the wall and they moved in, disarmed, checked the room the soldiers had come from. It was empty. 

Roy waved their group on. They stepped around the fallen enemy. Ed was on Breda’s arm, complaining already. 

The next wave of troops hit them only a few yards later. 

This time, the wall went up faster. Roy clapped and opened a window, snapped and caused ten rifles to backfire. As weapons were dropped and screams and yells echoed in the corridor, Riza and the other snipers were ready to take advantage of the chaos.

More reinforcements; again, they managed them quickly. Roy could kiss the idea of a bloodless coup goodbye now. Some of these soldiers looked badly hurt, and Roy knew from experience that it didn’t take long for gunshot trauma to become deadly. 

The next wave hit them almost immediately this time, from twelve o’clock and nine. This time, Roy and Armstrong barely managed the blockades between them. Ed tried but came in too late, diverted his wall into buttresses for theirs. His slowness was worrying. 

“They’re organised,” Riza said as she reloaded. 

“Agreed,” said Roy, dropping to a crouch, fingers still extended from the last snap. 

“We got all Hakuro’s higher-ups at Target Bravo,” Breda said. 

“Yes,” said Roy. “Either this is an enterprising young loyalist, or some of them have gotten loose.”

The floor drummed with soldiers’ footsteps. “Reinforcements!” Riza said. “At least twenty.”

“Where the hell are they all coming from?” Breda said. 

Roy knew. 

Hakuro would have had contingency plans, battle strategy, troops standing by: just as he himself did. Which was exactly why Roy’s coup, like all good coups, had begun by cutting the head off the operation. Apparently, it had reattached itself. 

Roy was an idiot with his fair trials and his bloodless coups, he thought. Hakuro would have just shot Roy in the eye. Hell, he’d once come very close to doing so. 

“They’re slowing us down,” he said. “And we’ve lost our first target. We need to fix this, fast.”

Breda said, “What if we keep some of our men moving forward like this, but divert a smaller team to take out Hakuro? The first team draws the fire, the second team has a chance of getting behind enemy lines before they’re spotted. We get our speed advantage back.”

“You’re assuming Hakuro’s in charge of this resistance,” Riza said. 

“He’s gotta be,” Breda said. “Who else?”

The barricade in front of them rattled hard and nearly cracked, but blue alchemical fire crackled along it, and it held. Armstrong’s hands were pressed to the wall. He grunted. “They’re using heavier weaponry,” he said. “They seem willing to risk bringing the building down to get to us.”

Roy huffed out a breath through his nostrils. They didn’t even have thinking time. 

Riza said, “Let Armstrong and I handle offence and defence. You strategise.”

Roy nodded. Within five minutes, they had gone from victory announcements to trapped in a fox hole. With creeping horror, Roy was beginning to recognise this scenario. 

Ed said, “You forgot the Homunculus.” He was crouched low, digging some kind of improvised pointy instrument inside his shoulder brace. 

“Shit,” Roy said, then mentally kicked himself. If his morale visibly lowered, everyone else’s did. “You’re right. We have to get it.”

Breda said, “Get Hakuro first, then get the Homunculus.”

Ed said, “No, you need to take that thing out before it levels Headquarters. It went crazy with just Al and me fighting it. All gunfire and shit happening, it’s gonna be terrified. You don’t want to see what it does when it’s terrified.”

Roy said, “If we hit the Homunculus, we’ve got to go all out. I can’t do that if I’m being strafed with enemy fire. We take down Hakuro first, then the Homunculus.” He could feel Riza’s anxiety from six feet away. “Just a minute. Everyone down!” He strode forward, clapped a window in the barricade, wrapped the dust in the air into a fuse. He stepped neatly to one side as they shot at the window and flicked a wall of fire into being. He rolled the oxygen away for a moment to kill most of the flames, then risked a quick look. Most of the men were down: moving, wounded and in pain. He’d calculated right. 

Riza and Armstrong nodded to him and took over once more. A couple of moments later, the barricade was lowered and they were able to gain ten foot of corridor before the next reinforcements hit them. 

“Get into an office,” Ed said, “make a hole in the floor and get one floor down, then make for the giant flailing Pride-monster. It’s probably sliced up half the ground floor by now.”

“I bet Hakuro’s close by where it is,” Breda said. “Take him out quick, then hit the monster.”

Roy’s team would need to be small. He needed at least one other alchemist on it. And if he was going to do this, it had to be now. 

“Fullmetal,” he said, “how’s the arm?”

Ed’s look told him instantly that it wasn’t good. “I’m trying to get the bullet out,” Ed said. He dug the instrument frantically into the workings of his shoulder, and hissed. “Then maybe I could move my arm -” 

The barricade in front of them shook again. Armstrong roared and pulled half the ceiling into missiles that rained over it. Roy took a fractional moment to wonder where the hell Armstrong’s shirt had gone. 

“Fullmetal,” Roy said. “We can’t wait. It has to be now.”

“ _Just a second -_ ” Ed said. He poked at the shoulder some more. 

“ _Fullmetal_ -“

Ed hissed again, then slammed the instrument to the floor. “Shit,” he said. His voice had dropped. “It’s not working.” He pressed his lips together and looked at Roy, then away. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t move fast enough like this to take the Homunculus or keep you covered.” He took a breath. “I can help with defence here. Take Armstrong.”

Ed got to his feet and headed over to the barricade. Armstrong hovered a moment, but let himself be relieved, stepped back to join Roy.

Riza looked at him sharply. Roy pulled in a breath. 

“Major Hawkeye,” he said. “If Armstrong and I don’t succeed, we’ll likely both be down. If we fail, send up the retreat signal. In that case … it’s all down to you. Fullmetal can make you a path down to the tunnels. Survive. Carry on. Find a way.”

Riza’s mouth worked. Her eyes were huge, her mouth stubborn. They had talked about this before, he knew she’d seen this coming. Roy didn’t want to fight without her. He never fought without her. 

She sucked in a breath, visibly mastered herself, brought her chin up. She snapped a salute. “Yes, sir!”

Roy nodded. He wanted to say something to her, to Ed. But he had no idea what, and there was no time -

“You can get there,” Ed said. “You and Armstrong, you’re like a two man army. Bet you’re glad you did all that clapping practice, huh?” 

Roy stepped back. “Yes,” he said, to both of them, to Breda, to his men. “Thank you.”

He turned away. Armstrong looked at him, and he nodded. He turned back, looked at Riza, small and steadfast, her shoulders set and her eyes pained. “Major Hawkeye, you’re in command,” he said. He saw her standing taller already, and felt stronger for it. 

He looked at Ed. He remembered calling out to him on Eclipse Day, the moment before he struck the final blow. Ed stared at him, with eyes full of fire and determination and love. They said nothing.

Armstrong stood in a newly-made hole in the corridor’s inner wall, and beckoned him. Roy turned, and stepped through with him. They were on their way.

***

The first step was easy enough. If a little humiliating. The room they’d entered was clear. Roy barricaded the doors with a quick clap, while Armstrong dropped a hole in the floor and checked the room below. He nodded, then held out his arms.

“Absolutely not,” said Roy. What could they do instead? Oh dammit, he couldn’t think of a thing. “All right, Major.”

A moment later he was being held against Armstrong’s sweaty chest in a bone-crushing one-armed hug, and they were airborne. Armstrong landed in a crouch that shook the floor. Roy extricated himself, and started to lead the way, right hand out and poised to snap. 

They had landed in one of the outer offices of the Investigations departments. As they jogged through empty offices, Roy heard muffled sounds from a couple of the file rooms. It sounded like the clerks had had the sense to hole up for the duration. Still, he kept the doorways covered as he passed.

“Brigadier General,” Armstrong said. “I was thinking. Why had they not yet deployed the creature against us, upstairs?”

“Best guess: it’s difficult to control,” Roy said. “We could have used you on the investigation. It’s been very inconvenient, having you undercover.” Armstrong looked at him, and Roy instantly regretted the understatement. Roy could only imagine how hard this task must have been for him. “Major,” Roy said, “Thank you for the last two years.”

Armstrong’s moustache wobbled. He looked dangerously close to an outburst of sincerity. 

The end of the Investigations department was up ahead. There, a right turn would take them out into the corridor, and from there, the creature’s location was a straight run across the courtyard. They didn’t seem to have been spotted yet. 

They were making good time. They had a fighting chance.

***

“Nearly - got it!” said Edward. “Stupid fucking bullet, c’mere!” He hissed with pain, and carried on digging around in his shoulder. Riza spared him a glance, then went back up and dropped another two soldiers. She had stopped shooting to wound. A few minutes ago they had reached that unpleasant tipping point: when the need to survive breaks through the limits of your decency, and your moral senses become excess baggage, to be ditched piece by piece. War.

She reloaded, and shared a glance with Breda. They were starting to run low on ammunition. If they could just take this next stretch of corridor, perhaps they could pick some up from the fallen. 

The barricade to one side of her shook and cracked. A chunk of it crashed to the floor, narrowly missing Breda and two more of their men. Heavy artillery? A grenade? “Fullmetal!” she shouted. 

“On it!” Ed clapped, and the barricade reformed. “There’s not enough metal around, so I took some carbon and hardened the front instead.” 

Riza looked at him. “I need you on offence as well as defence. How close are you to getting the arm fixed?”

“Just - a - moment.” Ed looked into the distance, face taut with concentration and pain. “Damn thing’s right in the middle of my shoulder, nudging the nerve connection. Happened to me before one time. Pain - in - the - _ass_!” On the last word, something dropped from Ed’s shoulder into the workings of his arm. He laughed shortly and triumphantly, hooked a finger in, then flicked the spent bullet onto the floor. 

He wriggled his fingers, then cycled his shoulder, tried to raise his arm. It trembled and froze at a right angle. Ed hissed again, then let it fall. 

“Better than before,” Ed said. He clapped clumsily, then dropped to slap the floor. The barricade moved ahead of them like a snowplough. “How ‘bout that?” Ed said. 

“Good,” said Riza. They moved forward the few feet they’d gained. Riza motioned her men down, then looked at Ed and jerked her head at the barrier. He opened them some windows, and on Riza’s hand signal, she and her men came up and strafed the corridor with fire. 

Their opponents’ strategy was unimaginative. And Riza’s team only had two wounded so far, none down: as well as Ed, there was Private Barker, a shot to the left hand they’d bound with a tourniquet. But still, progress was getting slower. Riza didn’t like how easily -

The public address speaker above their heads whined, then crackled into life. Everyone jolted. “This is Major General Hakuro speaking,” the loudspeakers echoed. Damn it all, it was. “We have control of the current situation. We have contained the threat and are in the process of eliminating the insurgents.”

Ed snorted explosively; Breda muttered _shit_. 

“This is a direct order to all troops. Brigadier General Mustang and his officers are to be shot on sight. This building is secured. We call upon any troops who have been coerced by the traitors to surrender immediately, and you will be treated with leniency. However, from this moment, we will use lethal force on anyone continuing to co-operate with the rebels. Stand by for further orders.”

From all directions, the speakers crackled and went silent. 

“Oh hell,” Riza said. “They’ve taken back Comms.” 

“Is he broadcasting from there?” Breda said. “That’s the opposite direction from where we thought he was.” And it was the opposite direction from where Roy and Armstrong were headed. 

“Major Miles,” said Ed. He looked at Riza, and then looked like he wanted to claw the words back in. Riza froze. Duncan, holding down the fort there, brave and unyielding. He’d have let it go up in flames before he surrendered. 

Her stomach bottomed out and for a moment she couldn’t see a thing. She loved him, she loved that man so much and why the hell hadn’t she told him more often, hadn’t they taken every spare moment they could get, she - 

From the barricade behind her, there was a whining noise. She whipped her head around. The whine terminated in a bark, then in a volley of barks. Before she could even order it, or think through the folly of ordering it, Ed had opened up a hole without asking and Hayate was through it like a streak, running excited circles around her feet, yapping - 

Her heart lifted. And if Hayate had made it out - 

There was knocking on the barricade. A familiar four-note tattoo, the knock on her apartment door in the quiet of the evening.

Hayate barked. Riza turned. 

“Let us through, now!” yelled Duncan Miles. “They’re right on our tails.”

The barricade was open and shut in a moment. There were only three of them: Private Rook, Corporal Fieseler, and Miles himself. 

He was sweaty and dusty and he smelled like gunpowder. But he was here and he was whole. 

“We lost Comms,” he said. 

“I know.” 

“We were holding out fine until they got reinforcements from somewhere. Stormed the place. When I knew we were screwed, I fell back. We lost nearly everyone. Chucked a couple of grenades in for a goodbye present. I see the tannoy’s working, but it must have put some of their communications out of action. So at least there’s that.”

“Did you hear the tannoy just now?” Riza asked. 

“Yes.” Miles wiped the sweat from his eyes with the heel of his hand. “He’s trying to get our troops to mutiny on us.”

“Sir,” Fieseler cut in, “there’s no way.”

Miles smiled with one side of his mouth. “That’s appreciated.” 

Gunfire hit their rear barricade. Riza motioned everyone down. Ed opened them some windows - they could do this routine without blinking now - and Riza and her men returned fire, dropped low again. Her rifle clip was empty, and it was the last one. Barker silently handed her his own spare. 

The barrage of fire hit both sides of their barricade at once. They might still be able to move, but the territory they left behind wasn’t their own now. They were surrounded.

***

Roy snapped, and a burst of flame flooded the corridor. As he dispersed it, he glimpsed the wall of enemy troops falling back, then turning tail. Roy was holding back less and less now. In these tight spaces, it was risky; he must be leaving fires behind him.

They’d lost the element of surprise as soon as they hit the corridor: not a surprise, but not good news either. Still, they were close to their original target. Before Roy had barricaded the window onto the courtyard, he’d glimpsed the creature again. It seemed smaller and calmer; inasmuch as that was something you could judge easily about a faceless, tentacled monstrosity. He must be right about it. They were holding it back, scared of it too. Sensible of them. 

“What now?” Armstrong said. “Should we still proceed as planned?” Hakuro had taken evidently taken Communications. Now Roy’s team had lost both their military targets, and likely the people guarding them. Hakuro had them on the run. 

The strategy hit Roy suddenly, with the chiming clarity of his better ideas. “Right,” he said. “We go straight across the courtyard. We stay in the open where I don’t have to hold back, defensive alchemy when necessary but don’t box ourselves in. We hit the Homunculus hard. If we damage it quickly, then with any luck that will draw Hakuro out. He was in Comms a minute ago, but I doubt he’ll stay put. He wants to bring us down and I expect he’ll want to direct the action personally. As soon as we’ve an idea of his location, while he’s still expecting us to be looking elsewhere, we divert all our fire on my mark, and don’t hold back. And once he’s down, we’re back in business. We deal with the Homunculus after.” 

Armstrong nodded firmly. “Now?” he said. 

“We move on my mark,” Roy said. “See the central path across the courtyard? I want you to -”

\- there was a hammering sound, incredibly loud, and the barricade behind Roy was shattering under a spray of machine gun fire. Where? Here was a blue uniform, an open door, and Roy snapped a flash of fire at it; the gunfire cut off instantly. Roy clapped, dropped hands to the floor; a wall shot up between the soldier and them. 

From outside it, there were wounded howls. The soldier was down. Where had he come from? He must have ducked behind a door instead of retreating with the rest. Roy breathed, patted himself down rapidly. He wasn’t hit. Amazing. 

And in front of him, Major Armstrong began to topple like a felled tree. 

The walls of the new barricade shook with gunfire. Reinforcements: Roy clapped again and threw as much density as he could manage into the walls. At the same moment, Armstrong hit the floor hard. 

Roy dropped to a crouch. He realised he was shouting. Multiple entry wounds: a dozen little red holes dotting Armstrong’s bare chest. He lay on his back. His face was slack and blank. Roy gripped Armstrong’s shoulder, yelled in his ear. “Major! Major! Look at me!” Armstrong stared at the ceiling. 

They were sitting ducks here. Roy needed to return fire. 

Quite suddenly there was blood everywhere, pooling so rapidly under Armstrong's huge body. The exit wounds must be on his back. Roy should turn him, try to slow the bleeding. The barriers shook again on either side. Roy clapped and strengthened them again. Armstrong didn’t even blink. 

Roy looked for another moment. He pulled off a glove. He put fingertips to Armstrong's neck, half-expecting to be surprised. 

But there was nothing, absolutely nothing. 

Another barrage of gunfire hit the barrier. They would hit it with something heavier in a second, if they had any sense.

He could lower the barrier, attack, go all out. How many were there? It didn’t matter. He could take down most of them, let Headquarters burn around them. He wanted to. 

And after that? 

Making his way straight through a crowd of enemies, with no backup and nothing to shield him? In the end, he probably wouldn’t make it. His weakness had always been the same: however much of a human weapon he was, he was one man. It would only take one shot. 

They thought they had him cornered. 

His ears rang. He was kneeling in blood. 

They thought they had him cornered, but a good man had just stood between him and a clip of bullets. Roy would not give into them. 

He clapped. 

A hole in the floor. There was no time: he just threw himself down it, knees braced. He landed hard, jarred his shoulder, rolled. He was in the basement: the regular basement, not the tunnels beneath. It seemed deserted. Lucky. His mind reeled away from what he’d just seen - death was still an impossible, insupportable thing - but he forced it into focussing. He clapped himself walls around him - no chances - and sprinted in roughly the right direction: headed towards the Homunculus, counting his steps as he ran. 

This had to be it. Now or fucking never. Roy was a human weapon. He was a one man army, an act of god. He could do this. 

Keep going -

***

The last time Al had glanced out the window, the out-of-uniform soldiers tailing him were still casually circling the building. It was infuriating, but there was nothing to be done about it; his time to break cover was agreed, and it was nearly here. Al kept his mind on the theory, on his worries about teaching. The youngest student in the room was his own age, but they still all looked at him like he was forty: it was so weird.

“ _Lungmei_ means literally, Dragon Paths. The first mistake a lot of Amestrian alchemists make about _rentanjutsu_ \- and there’s a reason I prefer that term to alkahestry, I’ll get to that in a minute, is -”

In seven minutes’ time, the agreed time would come. He could set his students free, knock down the men following him and tell them what a crappy job they’d done of it. Then he could call Radio Capital to get his directions: join his team or head to Headquarters. The second hand crawled obnoxiously slow around the classroom clock. Al hated this. 

“- It might help you here to start thinking of the Dragon less as a myth or a metaphor, more in terms of concrete alchemical symbology, like for instance the pelican or the phoenix -“ 

He wished there was even a radio here. If things had gone well, they would have most of Headquarters locked down by now. He really couldn’t concentrate. 

“- Good question,” he was replying automatically. He turned to the chalkboard, wrote three Xingese characters. “The word and the concept actually breaks down like this - ren, tan, jutsu. Jutsu is straightforward, that means ‘art’, and just like older Amestrian uses of the word ‘art’, it can also imply ‘science’ -”

The door crashed open. Al spun automatically, telling himself it could still be a late student.

But of course not. A dozen military police. He didn’t recognise any of them. His students openly gawped. Were the police on his side, or not?

"Can I help -"

"Alphonse Elric, the Bridgewire Alchemist?" said the officer in front. 

Al frowned. He took in the guns trained not upon him but on the whole room. He took in the positions of his students, too scattered for him to be able to get a wall up quick enough. 

"Yes?" he said.

"You're under arrest." Ugh. This was going to be a pain. The officer took a step forward. "By the authority of the Amestris Military, you have been charged with human transmutation." 

One of Al’s students actually gasped. 

“Oh,” said Al. “That.”

The officer barrelled on in a monotone. "It is my duty to inform you the court has found you guilty.” Al didn’t believe for a moment that there had been a court involved. Hakuro was trying to clear him off the board. And if he had the authority still to give an order like that - how badly were things going over there? 

“Right,” Al said. His hand was still raised to the board, and the soldiers had him covered. His eyes flicked to his students, terrified and confused. 

“You stand under sentence of death,” the officer continued.

“Wait a minute!” Al said. “My students, they haven't done anything. Give me a guarantee they won't be harmed, and I'll come quietly."

“You’re not going anywhere,” the officer said. 

Al looked at the guns again, and realised. 

“Let my students leave,” he said. “Please.” 

The officer didn’t take his eyes off Al’s face. “The rest of you, move it!” The guns swung around to cover the students. “Come on, out!”

None of the students moved for a moment. Then all six of them got up at once, gathering their bags, stumbling over each other, panicky. As they left, a few glanced at Al, frightened and guilty. 

As the last student filed out the door, the officer made a sharp, silent signal with his index finger - Al saw it coming - the guns swung around as he clapped. A moment before everything shattered around him, he thought, _this'll be close_.

***

She didn’t know what had prompted him to strike. Perhaps some coded signal in the radio broadcast. It didn’t matter; the man tailing her gave away his intentions as his posture shifted. Izumi finished her sip of coffee. Then as he reached into his jacket, she was up and moving. Her kick broke his wrist. The gun was on the floor, and now here were two more men she hadn’t spotted, rising with guns from the table by the coffee shop's door. She’d hardly realised they were taking her so seriously.

She launched herself at them. Mustang had apparently failed, this other fellow’s breeding of pet monsters could only end in grief, and the boys had doubtless gotten themselves in the soup again too. And on top of it all, it seemed she’d be going on the lam again, and right before the harvest festival rush at the shop. 

What a day.

***

“Fall back!” Riza yelled, hearing the whistle. They stepped back as far as they could get and shielded their faces as the rocket's impact shattered their barrier. Riza curled her body around Hayate. Dust and rubble rained down for a long moment.

In the silence afterwards, her ears rang painfully. She registered the ozone smell of alchemy, then that Ed was crouched low, good hand pressed to the floor. The last electric crackles of the transmutation faded towards his work: a giant hand that extended from the floor, catching rubble in its palm. Ed clapped again, his injured right arm jerking, and the hand became a plough that became a wall. Another shell hit the wall. It cracked. Ed grunted. 

They couldn’t keep this up indefinitely. 

“We need to change tack,” Riza said. “Opinions?”

“We’re getting low on ammo,” Breda said. “And they just keep hitting us harder.”

On his words, the barrier cracked harder under another impact. Ed growled and slapped it repaired. 

“They’ve got us boxed in,” said Miles. “We can still move at the moment, but there aren’t enough of us to hold any territory we gain.”

“But our main purpose right now,” Breda said, “is distracting the enemy and diverting fire from Major Armstrong and the Chief. I say we sit tight and keep on keeping on.”

“What if, instead of leaving them to the enemy, we just wreck the parts of HQ we leave behind us?” Ed said. “I can knock the floor out, take the walls down.”

“That just exposes us further,” Miles said. “I’d say that right now, our best defence is to go on the offensive. That way we keep the enemy on the hop; we can pick up more ammo from the enemy fallen as we move; and we buy ourselves some time.” 

“Right,” said Riza. “On my mark, Fullmetal makes us windows and we start to snipe the enemy.” She counted them down from three, and on zero she came up, rifle to her shoulder and - 

The corridor in front of their barricade was completely empty. 

“That’s either very good,” said Miles, “or very bad.”

“Everyone, maintain positions,” Riza said. Could the enemy be trying to draw them out?

Ed had quietly disobeyed her, coming up on one side to check out the corridor through a new slit in the wall. She turned to say something sharp to him -

\- Two officers had appeared, entering from a side corridor. They were carrying something on a stretcher between them, something in a glass fishtank. Something writhing and curling like smoke. There were sounds, too - scratchy, echoing. Riza recognised them. 

Riza took a step back. She kept her rifle aimed. 

“Huh,” Ed said. “So that’s where they’ve been keeping the combat alchemists.” 

“Is that—” Breda said, and stopped. “Oh _shit_.”

“Don’t panic,” Ed said. “I can fight this thing.”

“No,” Breda said. “The Chief. He’s been going the wrong way.” 

Riza stiffened, blinked, tried to collect herself. Roy and Major Armstrong: were they there yet? Did they realise? Would they return? Could they?

This development was very bad. Riza scanned the faces of the alchemists, trying to place them. “Is that Trebuchet?” she said. 

“Yep,” Ed said. “The other guy’s Electron.” Riza raised an eyebrow. “How come you’re surprised I actually do my actual office job?”

“How dangerous are they?” Riza said. 

“It’s not them we need to worry about.”

The alchemists laid down the stretcher in the centre of the corridor. 

“Everybody back,” Ed said. “This thing’s fucking deadly.” 

Riza nodded, and the rest of their little squad retreated. Riza and Ed stayed by the barricade, watching. 

One of the alchemists - Electron - drew a sidearm. He pointed it at the tank. 

“You _fucker_ ,” Ed breathed. 

Two rapid shots, and the glass shattered. The thing inside howled; thready arms whipped out and flailed. The alchemists had seen this coming; they were off and running already. A dozen arms slapped against the floor and walls, leaving razor cuts behind them. A dozen eyes opened and squeezed miserably half-shut.

“What are our chances?” she muttered to Ed. 

Ed looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Against this thing?” He paused, looked intently. 

It wasn’t attacking. After its initial outburst, the creature had drawn in on itself again. Now it was curling into its shattered tank, wrapping protective limbs around it and keening. Against herself, Riza felt a sudden burst of pity. 

“Stop pitching a fit!” One of the alchemists called. “Do your job.”

“I want the doctor,” the creature called. Riza held her breath; she’d known it could speak, but it was still a shock. “I want the doctor back.”

“Do your job, then,” called Electron. “There’s a threat in front of you. Deal with it, and you can go back to him.”

“No,” said the creature, elongating the word. It curled smaller. This was completely surreal. “I want the doctor back!”

Riza held up a hand to their squad. To Ed, she mouthed, _hold your fire_. He nodded, evidently there already.

“For god’s sake,” said Electron. “Stop sulking. You’re only making this worse.” 

The creature was silent. 

Electron raised his sidearm, aimed it, and fired six times in succession at the ruined tank. 

The scream was high and strange and so loud it hurt Riza’s ears. The limbs were yards long, flashing in her vision, too fast to see, making the air rush past - 

The window cracked shut. Ed had his hand to the wall. He clapped again and breathed hard. They both waited. At the back of the barricade, the rest of their group stared and listened and waited too. 

After a minute or two, the creature had quietened. By that time, Riza was beginning to formulate a plan. 

“Fullmetal,” she muttered. “Could you restore its container? Or make it a stronger one?”

“Right with you,” said Ed. “It doesn’t _want_ to fight. We make a bulletproof container, get it to hide in there, seal it up and grab it. Advantage us.”

He clapped and slapped the wall again. Riza peered through the new pinhole in front of her eye. 

The corridor was a wreck. The creature’s fit of pain had left deep score marks on the walls and floor, and in places, holes. Doors were splintered. The glass tank was in shards on the floor. For a moment, although she could hear its moans, Riza couldn’t find the creature itself. Then a movement drew her eye. It was huddling on the floor, wrapped in its own limbs, half hidden under a chunk of drywall.

Electron, on the other hand, was kneeling unmoving just where he’d been standing, halfway down the corridor. His hands seemed to be gone. Had he raised them to protect himself? As Riza watched, the man’s torso slid sideways, then simply toppled off him. The rest of his body fell to the floor. 

Ed hissed, one hand over his mouth. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’m going for it.”

He knelt and opened a low hole in the wall, then clapped again - and as he did so, Riza saw the other alchemist, Trebuchet, edging in from the side corridor where he’d evidently fled. She popped a couple of shots off and he edged back. The glass container knit itself back together, and a blackened coating - hardened carbon, she guessed - crept across it. From the side corridor, a couple of shots hit the floor around it. Ed tutted, and grew little hands from the floor, pushing the container towards the creature. It huddled smaller. 

Riza raised her voice. “Here,” she said. Hayate trotted to her side and sat. “Here you go. Come on, come on boy.” She didn’t look down at her poor puzzled dog. Trebuchet didn’t have a clear shot at the container now. Riza kept crooning to the creature. 

Experimentally, it reached out a limb to touch the container. “C’mon,” Ed said, joining in. “That’s a good monster, c’mon. There’s your house, nice and safe.”

Trebuchet’s hand reached around the corner, slapping a piece of paper to the wall. Riza had popped off a couple of shots before she even registered what he was doing. The circle on the paper lit and crackled - and the hand sprayed blood and vanished behind the corner with a howl. At nearly the same time Ed snapped out a missile from their barricade to try and skewer the paper - but it was too late. The blue crackles had already rippled out towards their wall. Riza and Ed jumped back at the same time - the wall shuddered - but nothing happened. 

At least on their side. 

“Fall back!” Riza yelled. 

From the other side of the barricade, the howl rose again. 

As her back hit the wall, the front barricade fell, cut in a dozen slices, and the whirlwind of cutting limbs was _right there_ , throwing itself at them - 

The wall at her back vanished and surged past her. “Keep running!” Ed yelled. 

Riza put her head down and sprinted. She saw new barriers ahead of her, shooting up to block off doors. She turned and saw the walls folding and reforming and shattering. Behind and above them, she caught glimpses of the creature, of the floors above. The building was being sliced open. The floor under them shook hard as falling masonry hit it. Ed’s damaged right arm swung at his side as he jumped this way and that, transmuting again and again. There were screams from above. 

“What the hell set it off?” Breda shouted as they ran. 

“Missiles,” Ed yelled back. “That son of a bitch got just close enough to transmute a bunch at it - right out of our wall.” 

“It thinks we’re attacking it,” Riza said. 

The creature’s screams were still audible through the barricade. 

“Is it still trying to break through?” Riza said. 

“Yup,” Ed said. “Stay there, gimme a sec.” He jogged backwards, slapped his left hand to the ground. With a deafening series of screeches and crashes, the corridor in front of him, above him, around him, folded in on itself. 

When the dust cleared a few moments later, a curved dome of packed rubble extended over them in all directions. Ed turned, clapped, and slapped barriers across a couple of doors in their new foxhole. 

“There,” he said. He sagged against a wall, face taut, then swiped his left hand across his sweaty forehead. “Twelve feet thick. I trashed a whole bunch of offices to make it. That thing’ll chew its way through pretty fast, though. Whatever we’re doing, we need to do it quick.”

“Are you sure it’s still attacking?” Miles said. 

Ed shrugged with his left shoulder. “Pretty much. I could still feel that asshole firing missiles out of our barricade a second ago.” Ed’s voice sounded pained. His left hand rubbed at his damaged shoulder. “Why stop? He’s got the perfect way of siccing it on us.”

“So,” said Breda, “now what?”

“Realistically?” Miles said. “We’ve lost most of our people and all of our territorial gains. We’re low on ammo, getting low on energy. We’ve got a weapon out there that can only be fought by State-class alchemy, and our only alchemist is injured.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Ed said. “This is nothing, it’s just the automail, I can –”

“Shut up, Fullmetal,” Miles said. “You’re tired and in pain. And you’re getting slower.”

Ed glared at him for a moment - then he sighed explosively and looked down. “Right,” he muttered.

“Let’s face facts,” Miles said. “Functionally, we’re already in retreat.” Everyone in their little squad seemed to exhale. He had said it, and now it was real. “We’re not going to win this, not today.”

“What about the Chief?” Breda said.

“The brigadier general’s headed to the courtyard,” Ed said. “He and Armstrong might be out in the open by now.”

“Even if they’re not,” Riza said, “The brigadier general will have sized up the situation. He’ll be looking out for the retreat flare.” 

“And,” Ed said, “he and Armstrong know how to get out the same way we’re going to have to - straight down.”

“All right,” Riza said. It was almost a relief. She could feel their squad’s energy levels rising. Now they had a new goal - retreat and survive - suddenly, they had a chance again. “Now. Fullmetal, can you make me a hole all the way through to the roof?”

Ed pulled a face, scrubbed a hand through his hair. The gesture was funnily like something Roy would do. “That’s a tough call,” he said. “Because of the way the dome’s packed. I don’t want to destabilise it. But if I …” He trailed off for a moment, frowning in concentration, then nodded firmly. “Yup. Got it.” He clapped, put his good hand to the wall, and frowned again hard as he leaned into it. The transmutation rippled cleanly, peeling a hole in the dome's ceiling, then the next floor up, then the floor after that. 

Riza pulled the flare gun from its holster at her back. She braced her legs, raised her right arm. When she saw sky, she shot at it. 

A moment later, she saw the red streamers of the signal flare, high above the building, spreading like a net across the sky. Then it winked out of existence as Ed closed up the gap. 

“Hey,” Breda said. “Wait. Sir - what about the creature?” Riza cocked her head at him. “We go down, they’ll send it straight after us. They’re not going to call it off now. Unless someone surrenders.”

“What’s your suggestion, First Lieutenant?” Riza asked. She was realising already. 

“Let me surrender,” Breda said. “You need to get away, you’re in charge of this thing. Hakuro’s still hoping that the troops are going to mutiny. How about we make out it happened? We’ve still got a radio. We get one of the men to use it, make out the troops turned on me. Hakuro’s guys could buy it, we know I’m near the top of his shit list after the last coup. But it could save them. And in the meantime, the Boss can get you and Major Miles out of here before they spot you.”

Riza held Breda’s gaze for a long moment. He meant it. It was awful. He knew what he was offering to do, and he meant it. And it could work. And they had no time. 

She nodded. She put a hand on his arm, squeezed it. Then she stepped back. 

“Come on, arrest me!” said Breda. He threw his hands in the air. 

“Sir?” said a soldier. 

“You’ll get your chance to repay them, Fieseler,” Miles barked. “Obey your orders.”

The soldiers’ guns came up. Riza and Miles stepped back, Hayate at her heels. Ed crouched next to them, clapped and put his hands to the floor. A metal pole shot up past Riza’s nose. “Hang on to that, guys,” Ed said. “This is going to get rough.”

As Fieseler took the radio handpiece and began calling out to the enemy, Ed clapped again. The floor tilted and shook, and the room shot past them with a rush of wind as their patch of floor fell down, and down, and down.

***

Roy clapped, grew himself a platform, again, slapped hands against the ceiling and melted it away. Earth and foundations receded and grew up with him, and he was at the courtyard’s edge. Instantly, gunfire at the walls. He might as well have painted a bullseye on them. A slit to see out of one side, and -

The wrecked portion of Headquarters, which five minutes ago had been covered with the creature’s tentacles - was empty.

Before he could process it, some warning sense sounded within Roy and he clapped, dropped his barricade, saw the rocket’s trajectory, snapped at it - 

It burst in midair like a firework. The blast of heat hit him a moment later. That had been close. He clapped again, hardly thinking, and this time an open barrier rose like a fan from the cobbles. Rifle shots struck against it on the way up. Shit. He was too exposed here, no backup, no time to think. 

He turned in a circle in the courtyard, dropping and raising barricades, searching. He saw smoke from half a dozen windows - he’d been right, he did leave fires - he saw that some windows were broken, others had snipers taking aim at him - but no creature. Where was the damn thing?

They must be targeting it at Riza and Ed’s group. 

The enemy sniping him were protected, hidden inside the building. Roy snapped off a few warning shots that stopped just short of the windows. Their panicked retreats could buy him a moment’s thinking time. Hakuro seemed to have practically the whole of headquarters: he could move his pieces freely, while Roy and his men had to fight their way from one place to another. Roy couldn’t get there in time. He couldn’t target Hakuro effectively either - perhaps not even if he somehow discovered where he was. 

Of course, Roy still had his power. It was nearly all he had. If he went all out, he could burn Headquarters to a cinder. They would die in seconds, in minutes: Hakuro and his people, Roy’s own people, all the soldiers who’d accepted Hakuro's authority and let him do this; perhaps even the Homunculus. 

It was unthinkable. The only way he could see to a victory now, and it led nowhere but hell. And where did that leave Roy?

This was not going to work. 

They’d lost. 

And then, as if, even from so far away she could read his mind, he saw it. A firework in daylight: a spark rising into the sky, then blooming huge and high over headquarters. The signal flare. 

The worst of the thing was: it was a goddamn relief. 

_They’re alive_ , Roy thought, _they’re surviving, they can get out of this_ \- and as he heard the whistle of another rocket, he was already clapping, slapping pavement and dropping down into darkness. 

He covered his head with one arm and kept the other pressed to the floor, transmuting and transmuting, as rubble from the explosion pitched down around him. He didn’t stop at the basement. He kept going down. 

After a long moments of sweating effort, his improvised elevator landed. The air around him was cold now, with a familiar smell: faint ozone, old death. 

Earth under his feet. From this and the air around him, a stick of compressed cellulose. The compound’s molecular strings knitted together sweetly, as if nothing in the universe was wrong. Roy lit it with a snap, and raised the torch. 

First task: close up that hole in the ceiling. Conceal his entry here. Next: get himself beyond the enemy’s reach. He pulled the little compass from his pocket. The first Homunculus’ network ringed the city. He could use it to get to the northern edge. Then, north, in secrecy and disguise, as fast as he could. He trusted Briggs could lock down as far south as the river Isar. On the other side of the river, he and his people could meet again. His people: he forced himself not to imagine what could have happened by now to Riza, to Havoc, to Ed. Instead he found himself chanting their names under his breath as he jogged. 

Were they down here already? He hoped so. The enemy would be down here soon too, most likely. He hadn’t hidden the direction he left. And if Chrysalis had been able to sneak the creature into Headquarters the way Roy thought, then the enemy must know ways down here too. He should keep moving north, just as Riza and Ed’s group would. With luck they would meet each other again in the tunnels north. If not: the smaller their groups were, the safer the journey north would be. Roy would just have to follow the plan and trust them to make it. 

His hands hurt. Funny: they hadn’t bothered him for years. Defensive alchemy, he supposed. More draining than he remembered. He was getting tired. He couldn’t get tired yet. He had a long way to travel. 

A good man had just died for him. And how many more? How many of his people were dead back there, how many would die now and in the days to come? For them, for everyone, he could not let himself be beaten. 

Roy was alive, and running. He would not let them down.

***

They’d made good time.

If there was anything good to be said about today, perhaps that was it. The actual coup might not have gone so smoothly, but the running for their lives part was so far very successful. 

Riza’s guess had been right: the machinery of the Amestrian state turned too slowly, even in a crisis, and the goods train they had chosen to hide on had left before the station could be blockaded. With any luck, Fullmetal, resourceful young man that he was, had found himself an eastbound train and was halfway to the desert by now. 

Their own train was still moving, and the last time Miles had checked one of the goods car’s high windows, he’d seen, with some relief, the rolling purple hills of the North. If Miles had been in charge of hunting down the conspirators, he thought, he would have had his men stop and search every train headed to North City; or at the very least had the railway company order its guards to search the train. Perhaps the train guards had considered that task above their pay grade; or perhaps Hakuro’s people really were as third-rate as they seemed. Which made it all the more humiliating to be running away from them. 

“Still,” Miles said aloud, “better running for one’s life than dead in a ditch.”

Riza looked up at him, twitched a smile. “That’s certainly something,” she said. “We knew things might end like this. We planned for it. And you know,” she hugged her knees and shrugged, “we’ve all been separated by the enemy before.” 

This was better. She’d been silent and distant for hours now. Miles didn’t feel so great himself. 

“And I’ve been in hiding from my own comrades before.” Miles put an arm around Riza. She put a hand on his knee. “We’re in a rough spot. But while you survive, you can still move.”

They rearranged themselves in the little foxhole they’d made themselves, in between the sacks of flour stacked high in their car. Hayate turned in a circle, then lay over their feet.

“We stick to the plan,” Riza had said to Fullmetal, after they’d finally climbed out of the tunnels in an alley near the train depot. “We stick to the plan, stick to the rendezvous points.” Miles hadn’t been entirely sure if she’d been talking about Alphonse or about Mustang; or for that matter, persuading Ed or herself. They had expected to find the Brigadier General in the tunnels, at first. But the place was a labyrinth. Hayate hadn’t scented him. He had left them none of his signs. When they’d heard the racket of troopers’ footsteps, when they knew beyond doubt that the enemy were coming for them, the choice was made for them. As for Alphonse, they could only assume that he had seen the signal and was making his way East as planned.

“Got it,” Ed had said. “I hate the part where you get separated. But it won’t be forever.”

On the evening of Eclipse Day, Miles had been dealing with the chaotic aftermath when someone had stuffed the telegram into his hands. He hadn’t even looked at it for five minutes. Then he’d glanced down in between arguing crowd control strategy and trying to commandeer use of a train, and that had been that: four lines of text on a page, and Major General Armstrong and Captain Buccaneer were gone from the world, forever. And years before that, after the war, there had been that thorough, desperate search for his grandfather, his aunt, his cousins. From that he’d learnt another thing: that hope wasn’t always a gift. Life could slowly erode it to a painful shred. There was something to be said for a clean blow. 

For that moment, he’d seen Fullmetal as Riza must see him. All that conviction that they could beat impossible odds: how appalling it would be if the world slowly wore it down. 

Neither he nor Riza had had the heart to answer Ed with doubt. Uniform transmuted into scruffy black, he’d clapped them on the shoulders and disappeared into the shadows, in search of his eastbound train. 

In the quiet of the evening, as their train sped north, Riza said, “We did the right thing.” There was a tense little waver in her voice. Of course she still felt terrible. General Armstrong had always insisted on the very same tactic: _withdraw and survive if you have to, nobody’s going to write a poem about you for dying pointlessly because you went back for me._ The order had always been good sense, but still, the thought of carrying it out had always made Miles feel sick at heart. 

In the quiet evening, as they sped north, Miles said, “There are things that we can forget, when we’re trying to be realists. We’ve seen the worst of humanity, we know how bad things can get. But.”

“You’re right,” said Riza, picking up the thread. “That’s not all we’ve seen. I’ve seen people do - remarkable things. Impossible things.”

“We fought a god,” Miles said. “All of us. And we won. We’re not going to surrender to some shoddy human beings.”

“We lost a battle,” Riza said, “not the war.”

“Yes,” said Miles. “And think of all the odds we’ve beaten. Think how many times you’ve looked death in the eye but lived to eat your breakfast the next day. General Armstrong used to say that scars are a badge that say, _I survived it._ ”

There was an uncertain silence. Miles could feel Riza weighing some difficult thought within her. 

“Do you think,” she said, “do you think Roy made it out?”

“He’s a hard fighter,” Miles said. “Like us, he’s good at surviving. What are you thinking?”

Riza twitched a smile. “I’m afraid I’m thinking that I’m glad, about the circle-less alchemy. Roy’s without peer on an open battlefield, but his weak points have always been obvious. Now they’re less so. He’s versatile. His defence is improving. And he’s always been creative.” She took a breath, looked Miles in the eye. “But there’s always that risk. Always.”

Her voice was so even and controlled. Miles could see her throat working. He resisted the urge to wrap her in his arms. Instead, he just looked her in the eye, and said, "Well, what then? You tell me. You two planned for this possibility, too."

Riza said, "Then, I'd inherit it all. I'd have to get to the top, I'd have to change things." She smiled tightly. "I'm not Roy. I'm not a dreamer. Even if we manage to win - " She shrugged.

Miles paused, and watched for a moment. He thought he understood. "You're saying all this now, to get it off your chest in case you really have to step up and do it, yes?"

Riza's laugh was a short violent, little bark, but her eyes were grateful. 

"If it comes to that, you'll do it well. I know you will. But you know what? My money’s on Mustang walking into Briggs with hardly a hair out of place.”

Riza’s laugh was real this time, and when she looked up at Miles, her smile was real too. “I’ll take that bet too.” She bumped shoulders with Miles and sighed. Now he did wrap her in his arms. She was warm, and her lovely, compact body vibrated with tension. “Thank you for surviving,” she said. “I didn’t say that yet, did I?”

“It was my pleasure.”

“I can’t tell you how I felt when you came through that barricade.” 

He put his nose in her hair. He was never good at expressing these things in words. But she so often understood nevertheless. She relaxed into him, put an arm around his waist. Hayate curled around her knees, and they both fussed with his ears. 

"Tonight, we stay alive,” he said.

“And tomorrow, we get ourselves to Briggs,” she said. “And we get to work.”

***

The sun was sinking behind the mountains, and the air was cooling - but Winry was still sweating. Hakuro’s pompous radio voice rang in her head. _Failed coup_ … goddammit! … _taboo alchemy_ … hypocrite! … _I have agreed to assume the Fuhrership in order to better restore rule of law_ … how very modest of him. _Do not approach the criminals … anyone giving comfort to the traitors will be subject to treason charges … Roy Mustang; Riza Hawkeye; Duncan Miles; Jean Havoc; Edward Elric, also known as the Fullmetal Alchemist; Alphonse Elric, otherwise known as the Bridgewire Alchemist._

Fuck. 

Granny must be beside herself right now. As if she hadn’t been through enough with Winry’s parents, with what Ed and Al had done to themselves, with the Promised Day. And now here was Winry, giving her one more person to worry about. 

She set aside the big socket wrench, bent over the railway track and unscrewed the big nut the rest of the way with her fingers. She breathed slow, trying to stop her heart from crawling up her throat and making a break for it. 

“Okay?” said Paninya. She hefted the prying bar in both hands. 

Winry looked around. The track was empty, the mountains silent except for the buzzing of cicadas. Just them here. Just them, the railway, the beautiful mountain sunset, a pile of sabotage equipment and a felony that got you ten years’ hard labour. Unless, of course, the authorities just skipped the sabotage charge and hauled them up for treason. 

Paninya, nevertheless, seemed pretty sanguine about returning to a life of crime. She grinned, jammed the prying bar under the rail, and bashed it into place with a good kick. She grabbed the ends with both hands, put her shoulder to it, and grunted. The rail only budged a few inches. 

“You want me to have a go?” Winry asked. 

“No! I can do this!” Paninya gave the crowbar another hefty shove. Back when they were planning this, Warrant Officer Brosch had gently suggested that Winry take someone a bit bigger than Paninya to do this part. Paninya had not taken it well. Paninya stepped back, took a short run up, and snapped out a kick at the top of the crowbar. 

The rail shifted a full foot from the track, and Winry stepped out of the way as the crowbar went flying. Paninya crowed. 

“Right,” said Winry, taking up the socket wrench, “Let’s get the other rail done.”

She was halfway through unscrewing the second nut when the train whistle sounded. 

“ _What?_ ” Paninya stepped back, jittering. “It’s not supposed to be here for an hour and a half!”

“Well, it’s here now!” Winry took a deep breath, grabbed the rolled banner from the side of the track, and climbed onto her motorbike. “We’ve got to get this up _now_.”

Paninya blinked at her for a moment, then hopped on behind her and took the banner. Winry kicked the starter, and the bike roared up the tracks. 

There was no way they had time to get to the spot they had originally planned. They’d just have to hope the driver took the banner’s word for it and hit the brakes in time. Winry hopped off the bike, unrolled the banner, and drove one end of the spiked pole into the loose desert earth at the side of the track. Paninya grabbed another end and unrolled, walking to the other side of the tracks. 

The banner said _THIS TRACK HAS BEEN SABOTAGED. PLEASE BRAKE NOW! SO SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. LOVE, THE RUSH VALLEY NETWORK_. It was a good job Mr Garfiel was going to be hiding out in a cave in the mountains, because he might as well have signed the thing. 

The train was visible now, curving around the track and moving towards them at an alarming rate. Paninya hovered by the bike. 

The train rushed past them, brakes screeching. The banner caught the engine’s front and then sailed off on the wind. Winry looked ahead, calculating. It hadn’t had enough warning. 

“Shit,” said Paninya. “It’s gonna crash.”

Winry stared. This was awful. How had this seemed like a good -

The train was stopping. Something weird was happening to it, upfront. She peered closer - and then, clear as day, stone hands were shooting up from the ground to grab at the engine, the goods carriages. And it was working. The train screeched, slowed, and finally stopped entirely. 

Paninya whistled. 

Winry’s eyebrows raised into her hairline. 

“You guys!” yelled a gravelly, familiar voice from the train. “What the actual fuck were you trying to do?”

“Non-violent disruption!” yelled Winry. Of course. Of course it would be this exact moment he showed up.

“Non-violent?” Ed’s head appeared at the side of one of the cars. “You just nearly crashed the train!”

“It wasn’t on schedule!” said Paninya. “We were gonna hang up that banner a mile back. We’re keeping Hakuro’s sweaty mitts off Rush Valley’s munitions industry. There’s a whole plan.”

“Oh,” said Ed. “In that case, good idea.”

Ed’s legs swung from the carriage, and then he dropped down to the tracks. Winry waited, still half-hoping to see Al follow him - but nothing. Ed jogged towards them. He was holding his right arm awkwardly tucked against him, Winry noticed. 

“Hi,” said Ed. “I broke it again. What is this, are you guys like the resistance now?”

“Yes,” said Paninya. “Are you on the lam again?”

Ed rolled his eyes. “Yes.” 

“Did you know we just committed treason by talking to you?”

“No. Wait, for real?”

“ _Paninya_ -” Winry cut in. 

“The train driver turns out to be on our side, by the way,” Ed said. “But we should still probably get out of here before someone else gets a clue and calls up the guys with guns. You think that bike can fit three people?”

“If they’re all small enough,” said Winry without drawing breath. “What’s the plan? You guys had to have one, right?”

“I’m going East,” Ed said. “The plan is, I meet Al and Captain Ross in Ishbal. Then we’re going to Xing. Hopefully.” 

“Al’s on the wanted list,” Winry said. “It was on the radio.”

Ed sagged. “So they don’t have him. Or at least they didn’t this afternoon.” Then he tensed right up again. “Who else are they looking for?”

“You. Brigadier General Mustang, Major Miles, Major Hawkeye and Captain Havoc.”

Ed exhaled shakily. “Thank fuck. _Thank fuck._ I didn’t know. Who’d gotten out. That’s - that’s more than I was expecting.” He ran his left hand over his face, closed his eyes for a moment. Whatever had happened, it had scared the hell out of him. 

“Was it bad?” It felt like a stupid question. 

Ed just nodded. 

Winry straddled the bike, and kicked the starter. Paninya hopped up behind her, and after a judicious clap that did something to the seat she didn’t want to speculate on, Ed hopped on too. She was carrying two passengers and four automail limbs. Well, at least Ed’s were built light. 

Winry opened the throttle, and just about kept her balance, and the bike roared off.

***

You only really discover how big your city is when you try to walk across it.

The journey out through the tunnels to the city’s northern edge had taken Roy hours. He was sure he’d been pursued for some of it. The troopers’ echoing shouts had been unmistakeable; the urge to stand and fight rather than to run for his goal had nearly overwhelmed his good sense. 

He came up at the spot they’d decided upon, back when their plan of retreat was first composed. Was it really only a few weeks ago? It already seemed like a lost world. This was the most secluded exit point they could find on the northern edge of the tunnels. If Roy had calculated right, he should be in a large patch of trees, right in the middle of the deer park on Roxbourne Heath. 

It seemed he was right. Right, and lucky: the place was deserted. Roy and his people had been right to calculate that nobody would want to picnic on the Heath in the middle of an insurrection. 

Roy had transmuted his uniform. The result was terrible, but badly dressed was at least an improvement on _shoot on sight_. He’d made a low-fitting cap from his jacket, but there wasn’t much to be done about the fact that his face was so well-known. He wondered what tomorrow’s newspaper headlines would say? Whatever Hakuro wanted them to, he supposed. 

His hands were stuffed into his pockets; he should probably take the gloves off, but he felt so exposed. He hadn’t seen a single human being since he surfaced. He wanted to sprint, but if he did that he’d arouse attention from half a mile away. 

Here was his target: the back gardens of a row of grand old terraced houses, overlooking the park. And here was the reason the park was empty even of wardens: the small gate leading out was locked. They must have shut the place. Roy considered for a second, and decided that fence-climbing was less of a dead giveaway than alchemy. He took another look around, got a foothold on the curlicues of the wrought-iron fence, and started hauling himself up. 

His landing sounded incredibly loud. The narrow path behind the gardens was also empty. Roy counted back gates and pushed his way through stinging nettles. Here was the fourth house: there were the blue curtains in the kitchen window. 

And - ah - there was a woman in the garden, hanging out a basket of washing. She was pink-cheeked, middle-aged, motherly looking. Roy stood at the garden gate. This had to be the right place. 

The woman turned, spotting him. She took another, longer look. “Oh,” she said. “ _Oh_.”

She looked utterly alarmed. Oh hell. Could Roy have just made a very costly mistake?

The woman looked around her, then back at Roy. Then she took two deliberate steps back, and jerked her thumb at the house’s open back door. _Quick_ , she mouthed. 

Roy did not need telling twice.

***

They took the back roads, all the way south. Incredibly, nobody stopped them.

Their fuel caches had all been where they were supposed to be; they could only hope that the same would be said for the border guards. The sun was nearly up when Rebecca and Jean reached the border: just a roadside checkpoint in a tiny southern hill town. Their performance was planned and rehearsed. They claimed to be holidaymakers; they'd been driving all day, they hadn't heard about Mustang's attempt at a coup. If it had failed, why couldn't they just cross the border? 

It had been tricky enough to arrange this for one tiny checkpoint. If this failed, they were going to have to improvise. 

A military police officer inspected their fake passports. Rebecca kept the engine ticking over and her hand on the throttle; Jean sat quietly, eyes half-closed, right hand clasping the pistol on his lap, under the blanket. 

The policeman waved them through. 

Rebecca gunned the motor. Five minutes later, Jean handed a fat wad of notes to an Aerugan border guard, and it was all over. 

They'd made it. And now, they had a job to do.

***

In the absolute darkness of the attic, with his fate in the hands of a network of allies and strangers, Roy listened. He heard the breeze whistling through the rafters, the creaks and dripping taps of the old house, the faint chirping of crickets in the garden. And that was all.

Riza. Havoc. Breda. Miles. Ed. His people. He couldn’t see them, or hear them, or touch them, but he had to believe they were out there. 

They were waiting for him to catch them up. 

He would not let them down. 

In the night, alone, Roy stretched out his hand.

***

***

_The End_

_\- but the story will be concluded in[ _The Compass Rose_](http://bob-fish.livejournal.com/80870.html)!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading. This fic was always intended to end on a cliffhanger and to have a sequel. The Compass Rose will run seven chapters; as I write this, Chapters 1 and 2 are up, and 3 and 4 are very nearly ready to post. I'm determined to bring this story to a prompt and hopefully satisfying conclusion.


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